


6B

by x_r



Series: Season 6 [3]
Category: Arrested Development
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/F, Gen, M/M, Post-Canon, additional tags & characters to be added, again in the sense that nothing happens that directly contradicts canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-06
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2020-10-11 09:30:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20543921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_r/pseuds/x_r
Summary: “Gob, what are you saying?” Michael asks, his brow furrowed in both confusion and disapproval. “Are you – are you planning to propose to him? On purpose?”“Shut up, Michael!” Gob whisper-shouts, and this time he actually slaps Michael in the face. “I never said that! But yes.”-A sequel to my first fic.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> alright so yes i did post this already earlier in the week and yes i did panic & delete it 26 hours later. my main reason for that was that i felt like i probably could've edited it some more first since i kind of rushed into posting it. HOWEVER that issue solely affects chapter 2, so here's chapter 1 again since there's really no excuse not to go ahead and post it. i did move the chapter break to slightly later in the fic, so this includes part of what was originally chapter 2. now chapters 1 & 2 are both >8k instead of being 6k and 11k respectively, which i think makes more sense than what i originally did.
> 
> ANYWAY this is a true sequel to my first fic as opposed to a prequel/companion piece like the first 'sequel'(of which i still have two chapters left to write, but since they're such different things i see no issue with working on both simultaneously as long as i finish that one first) & as such it picks up directly where the first one left off. originally i didn't plan to write this at all, but i started thinking about what would happen next & i got way too inspired to just not do it. and yes, i came up with a whole plotline and everything just so i'd have a valid excuse to write a gay magician wedding. which will be at the end of the fic, kind of like a season finale, so there's a bunch of other stuff that happens before we get to that point.
> 
> unlike my first fic i don't have this whole thing written out already, so i can't say for sure how long it will end up being, but if i had to make an educated guess i'd say somewhere in the 50k range since the first two chapters total 17k and they're both just pure setup. as far as tone goes this one kind of alternates between my first fic's strict adherence to the tone of the show and my second fic's varying degrees of divergence. so parts of it should feel like watching an episode & parts of it might not. i think chapter 1 is primarily column A.
> 
> i've only tagged the characters that show up in the first two chapters(not all of them appear in chapter 1) so far, but much like my first fic many more will be featured & i'll update the tags when i get to that point. as far as relationships go blunder is the main one(for obvious reasons, considering why i even wrote this) & will be much more prominent in this fic than it was in the first one.
> 
> i'll try to have chapter 2 back up either later tonight or sometime tomorrow, depending on when i finish editing it. i think that's pretty much it. enjoy!

“Everything’s fine, George Michael!” Michael yells, making a mad dash for the bedroom door. In a matter of milliseconds, it’s shut again. Whatever this is, he decides, his son doesn’t need to be involved in it. He keeps the phone flashlight trained on the intruders – the one actually inside the camper, at least – and he keeps the plunger in attack position. _Just in case_, he tells himself. He’s got half a mind to swing it as hard as he possibly can. Not that it would do much damage – _note to self: buy an actual baseball bat_.

“You know, Michael, you can put that thing down,” his father says, a bit _too_ casually, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“You sure about that, Dad?” Michael asks in a loud whisper, his eyebrows raised. “Because, as far as I know, I’m looking at a dead man right now. Don’t you think you owe me, maybe – oh, I don’t know – an _explanation_ at the very least?”

George rolls his eyes; clearly, in his mind, he owes Michael nothing. “So your father’s not dead, Mikey. Surprise! It’s a miracle.” He reaches out to hug his son in a not-so-subtle attempt to disarm him.

Michael backs away. “What the hell are you – _no_. No, Dad. _No_. I’m not gonna – I’m not gonna _hug_ you right now. Are – are you _crazy_? Are you _certifiably insane_? It’s a _scam_, is what it is. It’s _insurance fraud_. I can’t _believe_ you would-” He has to stop himself there, because even he can’t tell a lie _that_ blatant. He settles for a long-overdue facepalm instead, and in the process sets down both the plunger and his phone.

Satisfied, George begins prying open the cabinets, knocking their various contents to the floor.

“_Hey_!” Michael whisper-shouts, taking another step forward. “The _hell_ are you doing?”

“You’ll see,” George replies nonchalantly, removing the false back from the inside of the one underneath the sink and tossing it aside.

“_What_-” Michael starts, both too stunned and too captivated to attempt to stop him. He’d always thought those cabinets seemed a little _smaller_ than they should be, that the wood grain didn’t _quite_ match – but he’d never actually bothered to investigate. He should have, though, he _definitely_ should have, because-

“There’s always money in the Winnebago,” George says, clicking his tongue against his teeth. He lifts out the first few stacks of $100 bills and places them gingerly into an open dufflebag.

“What is that _from_?” Michael asks absentmindedly, his brain short-circuiting.

“The money?” George asks in response, as he continues withdrawing it.

“No, the phrase,” Michael says. He’s suddenly not sure if he’s actually awake or still dreaming, and he kicks the wall to be sure. _Ow_. Well, one stubbed toe later, he’s definitely awake.

George doesn’t even look up. “It’s from _me_, you _ass_. I said it just now.”

Michael facepalms. “No, but – okay, well, you know what, Dad, now that you mention it, you bring up a good point there. Where _is_ that money from, and how did it get here?”

“Don’t worry about it.” He pauses. “I mean, uh, _what money_?”

Michael facepalms again. “Dad-”

“I don’t see any money, Mikey. Do _you_ see any money?” He looks around in mock confusion as he tucks away the last of the cash. “You know, if you _do_ happen to see some money anywhere, could you lend me a bit of it maybe? It’s not like I can get a job now, what with-”

“Okay. Alright. _Whatever_,” Michael says, facepalming for what feels like the fifteenth time. “You know what, I don’t even care anyway. And, in fact, I think I’d actually _prefer_ not to be implicated, so _please_, keep it to yourself.”

“Will do,” George mutters, replacing the false back inside the cabinet. He shuts it again, without bothering to clean up any of Michael’s displaced belongings, then heads for the door. “See ya, Mike.”

“_See ya_?” Michael mutters to himself. “_What_ – No, you _won’t_!” he yells after his father. He’s not sure if George heard him, though. Both he and Oscar are already gone, vanishing somewhere into the night.

Michael stands there, at a loss for words, for what seems like an eternity. There’s a multitude of thoughts circulating inside his head, and they’re all canceling each other out. Mostly, though, he feels like an _idiot_ – there was _cash_ in the Winnebago this _entire_ time, a _shitload_ of cash, probably _at least_ 50 grand, while he and his son were living like peasants – and, oh yeah, on top of that, his father is still very much alive. He can’t believe he’d _actually_ allowed himself to think that _maybe_, just _maybe_, George Bluth, Sr. was finally gone for good. _That son of a bitch_, he thinks to himself, then changes his mind. _No, no, that father of a fool_.

Eventually, though, he remembers George Michael, and he makes his way back to the bedroom, where he finds his son still awake and sitting up in bed, wide-eyed and intrigued.

“How much of that did you hear?” Michael asks, balancing himself in the doorway as if hoping to block George Michael from seeing the disarray behind him.

“N-none of it,” George Michael lies. It’s clear his father doesn’t want him to know the full details of whatever just took place. He knows enough, though. He’d recognize his grandfather(his apparently _alive_ grandfather)’s voice anywhere.

“Well, it’s nothing to worry about,” Michael says unconvincingly, taking a seat on the edge of the bed next to his son. “Just some guy camping a few lots over. He wanted to borrow some sugar, but I told the asshole we didn’t have any. Guy didn’t believe me, though. He went through _all_ our cabinets. Spilled stuff _everywhere_.”

“We do have sugar, though, Dad,” George Michael points out. He can see the container on the floor through the open door, in fact.

Michael freezes for a moment, then quickly collects himself. “Well, _yeah_, son, of course we do. I just didn’t want _him_ to have any of it. He didn’t deserve it. I mean, who _does_ that? Breaks a window with a rock, invites himself into a camper, has his buddy stand guard outside while he-”

“There were two of them?” George Michael interrupts quizzically. _Pop-Pop_ and _Uncle Oscar_? _So they’re_ both _still alive_…

Michael freezes again. “Did I not mention that?”

George Michael shakes his head. “No, I don’t think you did.”

“Oh. Well, there were. And they were after our sugar.”

“Right,” says George Michael, although his frown betrays his disbelief.

Michael awkwardly pats him on the back. “I didn’t let them have it, though, son, so don’t you worry. I stood our ground. We’re Bluth men; we can survive anything.”

“Even death, apparently,” George Michael says quietly to himself.

Michael tilts his head, his brow furrowed. “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” George Michael says, a little too quickly. “I – I didn’t say anything.”

“Right,” Michael says after several seconds of painfully awkward silence. “Well, you know, nothing to worry about here, like I said. Just a couple of sugar thieves. _Unsuccessful_ sugar thieves, might I add.”

“Right,” George Michael repeats.

“We do have to leave right now though, son,” Michael says, abruptly standing back up and heading for the front seat. He nearly trips over the sugar in the process, managing to stub his toe a second time and silently cursing.

George Michael is caught slightly off guard. “What? Why? Can’t we at least wait until morning?”

Michael pauses, observing his son, and quickly thinks up an excuse. “They, uh – our window’s busted, son, so no. We can’t stay here. Not like this. Just think of what could happen. An endangered bird flies in here, gets ahold of that alcohol, next thing you know we’re in trouble with the parks service, got a _drunk bird_ on our hands – we _cannot_ risk it. God knows we’ve had enough trouble with the law already in this family.”

“Um, okay,” George Michael says, then halfheartedly attempts to make a joke. “Enough drunk birds in this family already, too.”

“That’s the spirit,” Michael replies. “Let’s go see Gangie.”

-

George Michael doesn’t sleep at all on the ride back to Newport. He pretends to, for Michael’s sake, but his head is buzzing too much to even try. He feels like he’s fifteen years old again, the only one who knows his grandfather’s secret – this time, though, he’s _not_ the only one. He might be the only one who knows that _he_ knows, though, and that’s almost worse, because there’s no one he can talk to about it. He debates telling Michael that he knows those two “sugar thieves” were really Pop-Pop and Uncle Oscar, but something inside of him tells him that’s not a good idea. His father is obviously trying to protect him, even though he doesn’t need it – the year is 2016; he’s well into his twenties. It’s the thought that counts, though, he supposes, so he decides to just let Michael have this one. _At least he’s trying_, George Michael thinks. _Some kids don’t even have that_.

It’s easy enough to write the whole thing off as a dream, anyway. Michael had tried to convince him it was, back when they’d stopped for breakfast in Bakersfield. George Michael had nodded along, right up until the part when Michael realized how ridiculous that sounded and backtracked, reverting once again to his “sugar thief” story, not _quite_ cognizant enough to realize that the aforementioned sounded equally ridiculous.

Needless to say, it had been an awkward breakfast, although not nearly as awkward as some the two had shared in the past, so George Michael was content to poke at his eggs(which had somehow accomplished the feat of being both over- and under-cooked simultaneously) and sip at his coffee(which, amazingly enough, was stale even at the tender hour of 5:30 in the morning) while he listened to his father talk himself in circles. He’d joined Michael in the front of the Winnebago afterward, deciding he had enough of an excuse now to be awake. Still, the last stretch of the journey home is one that takes place mostly in silence.

“So,” Michael says finally as they enter Sudden Valley, “I guess I’ll park this thing outside the model home, and we’ll just keep on doing what we’ve been doing. Sounds good, right son?”

“You know, Dad,” George Michael replies, not sure he’ll be able to stand any more time spent in such close quarters with his father, “I _do_ have a house here.”

“Right, right,” Michael says. “Of course. We’ll park the Winnebago outside your place instead. Great thinking, son. That way we won’t have to run into your Uncle Tobias.”

“_Or_,” George Michael says slowly and carefully, “we _could_ stay _inside_ the house. You know, instead of just in the RV in the yard.”

Michael frowns. “Well, gee, George Michael, I thought you were _enjoying_ spending time with your old man. But, hey, if you’d rather stay inside your own house, I get it…”

“No, Dad, I – I _am_ enjoying it,” George Michael quickly replies. “I meant _both_ of us, inside the house. You know, I’ve got that extra bedroom.” _Didn’t I say ‘we’_? he thinks to himself.

This time, fortunately, Michael seems to _actually_ get it. “Right, okay, I see what you’re getting at there. You know what, that’s actually even better.”

“Yeah,” George Michael says as they pull into the driveway.

They’re both far too awake at this point for any hopes of catching up on some shut-eye, even after last night’s measly two or three hours of sleep, so both father and son immediately busy themselves with relocating their belongings from the RV into the house. George Michael, having made it to the front door first, is surprised to find it unlocked, and moreso to discover what appears to be women’s clothing strewn across the floor, along with various other items he has no memory of ever owning. There’s a shelf holding several wigs in one corner, including a silvery gray one and a ginger one that look awfully familiar, and everything suddenly clicks into place even before he notices the sleeping woman sprawled out on the couch.

“Maeby?” he asks, a little loudly.

In an instant she’s awake and sitting upright, and her hand is reaching behind the couch for – _is that a sword_? It’s pointed in George Michael’s direction before he has time to react, and he immediately raises his hands in surrender, dropping his bags on the floor as he lets out a high-pitched yelp.

“Oh, shit, it’s just you,” Maeby says, replacing the sword behind the couch. “Hey, George Michael.”

“H-hey,” he stutters, still in a state of shock. “Wha – what?”

“Yeah, I’ve been kind of staying here the past few nights,” she says, yawning. George Michael looks skeptical, though, so she adjusts her story. “Few _weeks_, whatever. My dad keeps trying to get me to do monologues with him. I keep telling him, ‘those are for _one person_,’ but he doesn’t seem to get it. I mean, _god_, it’s right there in the name. _Mono_. Like the disease. You catch that from _one person_, not two. He should know that. He’s like a one-man disease.”

“Right,” George Michael says uneasily. “Uh, what about your mom?”

Maeby shrugs. “She keeps pulling these ‘all-nighters’ at Sally Sitwell’s house just to get away from him. I don’t blame her.”

“_House_?” George Michael asks, confused.

“I said _office_,” Maeby replies, but the way she’s smirking leads George Michael to believe otherwise. He decides to change the subject, not sure he wants to know any more about whatever’s going on there.

“What about the – that was a _sword_, wasn’t it? Do you even know how to use that thing?”

“Oh, right, yeah,” Maeby says, nodding. “And no, but neither does the guy I stole it from.”

“You – you _stole_ it?”

“Yeah, technically. But _honestly_, does it even _count_ as stealing if it’s from family?”

“I think it still does, yeah,” George Michael replies, all too aware of the fact that she also seems to have stolen his living room.

Maeby shrugs. “Well, anyway, Uncle Gob left some stuff at the model home a few months back. I thought this looked cool, so I took it.” She picks up the sword again, examining the blade. “He keeps coming over asking if anybody’s seen it, and I keep lying to him. It’s fun.” She pauses for a moment, then continues. “I need it more than he does, anyway. You can’t be _too_ careful, in a neighborhood like _this_.”

“Right,” George Michael says again as Maeby sets the sword back down. “Probably would help if you locked the door, though.”

“What’s the point?” Maeby asks. “These things take like two seconds to break into. You barely even need a lockpick. Hell, I did it with a bobby pin.”

“True,” George Michael muses.

“Besides,” Maeby continues, “if some guy comes in here while I’m sleeping and I have to kill him, then I’m already gonna have to deal with blood all over the floor. Who wants to have to deal with a busted lock on top of that?”

“Well, you don’t _have_ to kill him. If he tries to pick the lock, the noise would probably wake you up, and then all you’d have to do is wave the sword in his face to scare him off. Nobody needs to _die_.”

She frowns. “Where’s the fun in that? What’s the point of even having a sword if all you do with it is show it off?”

“That kind of makes it sound like you _want_ somebody to come in here,” George Michael points out.

Maeby scoffs. “I’m just saying, if somebody _did_. It’s a hypothetical situation, George Michael. Are you saying you _wouldn’t_ kill a guy who broke into your house while you were sleeping?”

“I-”

That’s when Michael appears in the doorway, saving his son from having to answer that loaded question. “George Michael, why’s your cousin here?”

“I was actually just asking her that same question myself, Dad,” George Michael replies.

“So you didn’t invite her?” Michael asks, then leans in closer and whispers loudly. “Son, you and her aren’t… _doing anything_, are you?”

George Michael is mortified at the suggestion. “_What_? No, Dad. _God_, no. I literally just walked in here just now and found her on the couch.”

“Well, let’s keep it that way,” Michael says, patting his son on the back. “This family’s got enough to be ashamed of already.”

“Nice to see you too, Uncle Michael,” Maeby says, rolling her eyes.

“Uh-huh, yeah,” Michael replies absentmindedly, venturing deeper into the house.

Maeby stands up, stretches out, then looks at George Michael. “What are you guys doing back here, anyway? I thought your ‘father-son adventure of a lifetime’ was supposed to last until next week.”

“Yeah, it – it was,” George Michael says, choosing not to elaborate further.

“So what happened?” Maeby prompts, unsatisfied by that answer.

“Well, see, my dad – well, you know how things go. He, um… so, here’s the thing. We – _he_ got spooked, some guy broke into the camper-” George Michael cuts himself off as his cousin eyes him with suspicion. He decides the best course of action here is to repeat the tall tale Michael had told him, so that’s what he does. “Yeah, apparently the dude wanted to borrow some sugar at 1:00 in the morning. Must’ve been high or something. Anyway, my dad freaked out, so we booked it out of there immediately.”

Maeby doesn’t look like she believes this explanation 100%, but she _does_ look like she finds it pretty funny. “That’s _it_? Some crazy guy in your RV? You both look like you’ve seen a ghost or some shit.”

“Well, you know, in a way, we _have_,” George Michael says. Immediately realizing his mistake, he hastily attempts to correct it. “The, uh – the ghost of that guy’s sanity, I mean. And, you know, to be fair to my dad, I think _anybody_ would’ve probably freaked out over it.”

“Not me,” Maeby says, motioning to her sword.

“Yeah, well, most people don’t have homicidal tendencies,” George Michael responds, to which his cousin shrugs.

Michael walks back into the room then, his eyes trained on Maeby. “What’s going on in the backyard?”

“Oh, right, that,” she says. “R- _a friend_ and I tried to build a fort out of your mail. We didn’t have any tape, though, so we had to use denture glue, and then-”

“How come you had denture glue?” George Michael interrupts.

“I stole it from the old folks home,” Maeby replies, and George Michael nods.

Michael, meanwhile, is shaking his head as he steps outside, tuning out the rest of their conversation. His mail is _everywhere_, and half of it’s covered in denture glue, and some of it’s probably important. He’s not sure where to begin looking, though, so all he can do instead is continue to shake his head in frustration. He does happen to notice, however, that spread out among the chaos are several envelopes of a similar size and color, each sporting the familiar logo of a mapping car he used to drive.

“What the-” he mutters to himself, reaching for the nearest one. He rips it open, and a letter falls out that he just barely manages to catch before it hits the ground. He scans the page, and several phrases pop out at him. “_Appreciate your service_ – _no longer required_ – _due to period of extended absence_ – _unpaid leave_? Huh? Did I just get fired?”

There’s a number listed at the bottom for ‘questions or concerns’. This counts as both, Michael decides, so he pulls out his phone and dials it.

“Jeff from Earth speaking,” says the voice on the other end. “Thank you for calling-”

Michael cuts him off, impatient. “Hi, yeah, this is Michael Bluth. Did I just get fired?”

Jeff from Earth inhales sharply. “Oh, Mr. _Bluth_. ‘Fired’ is a word we _really_ don’t like to use here at-”

“Could you just answer the question?”

“Well, okay. Are you fired? No, not at all – emphasis on the ‘not at all’. Do you still work here? Well, technically yes, and you can keep using the car, but as for receiving compensation, that’s no longer-”

“_What_?”

“Well, sir-”

Michael decides then that he’s heard enough, and he ends the call before Jeff from Earth can finish his sentence. Sighing, he turns around and walks back into the house.

“George Michael!” he exclaims, and his son turns to look at him.

“Yeah, dad?” George Michael asks.

“Guess who just got fired!” He gestures to himself with both thumbs, answering his own question, then folds his arms across his chest.

George Michael’s face falls. “Look, Dad, I told you already, I’m really sorry. But you know why I had to do it. It was the whole-”

For a moment, Michael looks confused. “What? No, son, not – I’m not talking about by _you_. And I already forgave you for that, you know. No need to beat yourself up over it.”

“Oh,” George Michael says. “You – you got fired again? By somebody else?”

Michael nods, and starts to open his mouth, but Maeby beats him to it.

“_Dang_, Uncle Michael. You got fired two separate times in less than a year? You must be the world’s _worst_ workaholic.”

Michael glares at her, but her smirk doesn’t even falter.

“Three times, actually,” George Michael chimes in. Maeby raises her eyebrows, intrigued, so he continues. “Yeah, back when we were in Phoenix, he-”

“There’s no need to bring that up, son,” Michael hastily interrupts. “Let’s just… keep the past in the past.”

“Right, sorry,” George Michael says.

“Oh, wait a minute,” Maeby says, remembering something else. “Didn’t you get fired from Imagine Entertainment, too?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot about that one,” says George Michael.

“Okay, _hang on_,” Michael interjects, annoyed. “I did _not_ ‘get fired’ from Imagine. I was ‘let go’ over creative differences. And that was_ Kitty_, who hates me _anyway_, so I _think_ I deserve _a little bit_ of a pass on that last one, okay?”

“‘Let go’ means fired,” Maeby replies without missing a beat. “_Four times_, Uncle Michael. _Wow_.”

“Anyway,” Michael continues, shifting the subject back to its original focus, “_apparently_ I’m no longer welcome at the Search campus. Yeah, it seems they’re not fans of guys who sign up for scuba trips and then back out last minute. They have _no_ respect for _family_, these people. You know what, I’m better off without them. I really am.”

George Michael nods, attempting to appear supportive, and Maeby just keeps on smirking.

“I _am_,” Michael repeats.

Having convinced himself, if no one else, he turns around and leaves again, returning to the backyard. His mail is still scattered everywhere, and he’s unable to find within himself the willpower to collect it all and go through it. If there’s anything important anywhere in there, he decides, they can just send it again. Right now, he’s more unsettled by the fact that Maeby’s _right_; he _has_ been fired from four different jobs in the past year. On top of that, he’s unemployed.

Even _Lindsay_ isn’t unemployed, he recalls – she works for Sally Sitwell now, according to Lucille, and according to Lindsay herself, she’s actually _good_ at it. So if Lindsay has a job(an _actual_ job), and Gob is still doing whatever it is he does at the Austero-Bluth Company, then that means Michael is the only Bluth sibling(save for Buster, for obvious reasons) currently not working(not that what Gob does is _work_, but it’s the principle of the thing), and that – _that_ is just plain unacceptable. He needs to do something about it.

Moreover, he needs something to occupy his mind other than his father’s unexpected reappearance. The funeral was only _weeks_ ago; why _now_? And why store (what Michael assumes had to be _at least_)50k in cash in the Winnebago? Why even let Michael _use_ the Winnebago, for that matter, with all that cash inside? Had he assumed Michael would be too dumb to find it? Was he _right_ that Michael was too dumb to find it? And where had all of that money even come from, anyway? Michael wants answers, but he also wants to forget.

_Where’s Gob with a forget-me-now when you need one_? he thinks to himself jokingly, but even the memory elicits a groan.

-

An hour or so later, Michael finds himself stepping off the elevator on the fourth floor of the building that houses the Austero-Bluth Company. He’s not sure, exactly, what his plan is, but it definitely involves retrieving the resume he knows he left here, and it definitely _doesn’t_ involve thinking about what happened at 1:00 AM. He’s vaguely concerned about the possibility of running into Gob, whom he doesn’t particularly want to see – but, considering that it’s 11:15 on a weekday morning, he _highly_ doubts he has anything to worry about there.

“Hey, I thought I fired you,” he says, noticing Adhir seated behind a desk.

“You did,” Adhir replies curtly without looking up, clearly uninterested in chatting with Michael. “If you’re looking for the president-”

“I’m not,” Michael interrupts, then makes his way down the hall to what _should_ be the conference room. Apparently, though, it’s Gob’s office again now, judging by the tacky magic-themed décor, the suspicious lack of a conference table, and(perhaps the biggest giveaway) the man seated in a spinning chair and staring out the window.

“God _damn_ it,” Michael says, louder than he intended to, and Gob spins around with a dramatic flair.

“_Michael_,” he says, standing up.

“Hey, Gob,” Michael replies as his brother walks over to him. “Why are you here?”

Gob scoffs. “Uh, _wow_, Michael. I’m kind of the _president_? Why are _you_ here?”

Michael decides to ignore the second half of that. “Yeah, I get that, but since when do you actually come into work?”

Gob shrugs. “Since when do you actually care?”

“I _don’t_, actually,” Michael replies, shaking his head. “I’m just here to-”

“To beg for your old job back,” Gob interrupts, smirking as he places a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Just like I always knew you would. Too bad Dad’s not around to see you prove me right.”

“Uh, no, actually,” Michael retorts, maneuvering out of Gob’s grip. He _had_ been considering it, to be completely honest, but the idea has very quickly lost its appeal. No way in _hell_ is he giving Gob that satisfaction. “I’m just here to pick up my resume. I’m job-hunting again.”

“Why, because George Michael fired you?” Gob asks, still smirking.

_No, you idiot_, Michael thinks. “Uh, yeah, because of that.”

“Took you long enough,” Gob says, returning to his spinning chair. “So where are you going?”

“Haven’t really thought about it,” Michael replies, rummaging through a filing cabinet. “Sitwell, maybe? They’re basically us but legit. I’ve certainly got the work experience.”

“See, that’s why you got fired. We _are_ legit, Mike.”

Resume now in hand, Michael turns to look at his brother, who flashes him a very _interesting_ looking smile.

“What the _hell_ do you have in your mouth?” he asks.

Gob spits out the false teeth. “They’re from the printer. I was bored the other day.”

“Okay, right,” Michael says. “Well, that’s kind of a perfect example of what I was talking about just now.”

Gob shrugs again, then something occurs to him and he leans forward. “Wait, Michael, if you’re serious about Sitwell-”

“I am, Gob. Why would I lie about that?”

“Don’t _interrupt_ me, _Michael_! I’m trying to _help_ you!”

“Okay, _sorry_,” Michael says, rolling his eyes. He highly doubts he wants any type of ‘help’ that Gob might be offering, but he may as well at least humor the guy before he gets the hell out of here, never to return. “What were you saying?”

“I was saying, I can get you an interview with the guy who runs the place.”

Michael pauses, suddenly reevaluating his ‘get the hell out of here’ plan. “Stan Sitwell doesn’t run the place?”

It’s Gob’s turn to roll his eyes now. “Uh, _no_, Mike, he _doesn’t_. He got too old, and too _bald_, and bit the dust. Or retired, or whatever. It’s under _new management_ now.”

Michael doesn’t like the way Gob says ‘new management’, but he _is_ intrigued by this development. “And you’re telling me you know the guy who runs it now?”

“Uh, _yeah_, Mike,” Gob replies, nodding in an almost comically serious manner, and for some reason he also looks a little confused by the question. “I know him _very well_. We’re _this close_, me and him.” He has his elbows on his desk now, his two index fingers extended and touching at the tips.

“Kind of a weird way of demonstrating that, but I appreciate the gesture,” Michael says, his brow furrowed slightly.

“I can call him up for you right now if you want,” Gob offers, motioning towards the office phone.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Michael says after a brief moment of consideration. “Thanks, Gob. That’d be great.” He sits down, and his brother frowns at him.

“Could you give me a little privacy, guy?” Gob asks, still frowning.

“Oh, right, sure,” Michael replies, standing back up. “Of course.”

He heads for the door, closing it behind him at Gob’s insistence, and spends the next several minutes out in the hallway waiting for Gob to finish his phone call. Growing impatient almost immediately, he attempts to make out what exactly Gob is saying, but apparently these walls are too thick for eavesdropping. He’s about to try the door instead when it suddenly swings open, leaving Michael scrambling for a less incriminating position. Fortunately, however, Gob doesn’t seem to notice what his brother had been doing.

“Okay, you’ve got an interview at noon, and _you’re welcome_,” he says, grinning.

“Today?” Michael asks, impressed. “That was fast.”

“You’re _welcome_,” Gob repeats, looking at Michael expectantly.

“Thanks, Gob,” Michael says, sighing and rolling his eyes.

“You’re welcome, Mikey,” Gob replies, hugging Michael so tightly that he almost can’t breathe. Gob then pulls away abruptly, before Michael can complain. “Oh, and by the way, _you’d_ better be fast too, because he’s got a lunch date at 12:30 that he does _not_ want to be late for.”

“He told you that?” Michael asks, slightly confused.

“Uh, _yeah_,” Gob responds with an eyeroll. “Why wouldn’t he? You think the guy-”

“It just seems a little weird to – nevermind. See you around, Gob,” Michael says, grimacing as he realizes the similarities between what he just said to Gob and what his not-so-deceased father had said to him this morning. Gob, however, doesn’t seem to notice this either.

“I’ll have Adhir show you out,” Gob says, then cups his hands to his mouth. “_Adhir_!”

“That really isn’t necessary,” Michael tries to protest, but Gob is still yelling something that involves the words ‘compliant officer’, and Adhir flips him the bird on his way out.

“Yeah, you too, buddy,” he mutters as the elevator shuts.

-

Michael pulls into the Sitwell Construction parking lot at 11:50, but he starts having doubts way before then. Why is he interviewing with the head of the company? He may be a little rusty in that department, sure, but don’t these things usually involve HR instead? Additionally, he realizes, Gob never actually mentioned what this guy’s name was, so he has no idea who he’s even supposed to be meeting with. And why did he let Gob set this thing up for him in the first place? When has trusting Gob with _anything_ ever worked out for anybody?

He decides to do a quick Something search on his phone for Sitwell Construction before he heads inside, so that he’ll know, if nothing else, the name of the person who runs the company he’s about to interview with – but the universe, as it seems, has other plans. He only manages to type as far as S-I-T-W before his screen lights up with the words “Gangie From The Monster Movies”.

“Damn it!” he shouts in frustration, answering the call. “What is it _now_, Mother?”

“That’s no way to talk to your sole surviving parent,” Lucille scolds from the other end.

“You’re right, it isn’t,” Michael responds, flashing back to his early morning encounter.

“Anyhow,” Lucille continues, paying him no mind, “I’ll see you tonight.”

Michael sighs. “Mom, you can’t just say that and expect me to drop whatever I’m doing to-”

“Why not? That’s what you did this morning, isn’t it?”

“Oh, for the love of-” Michael facepalms. “Who told you about that?”

“The anus tart,” she answers.

_Well that’s just great_, Michael thinks to himself. “And how does _he_ know?”

“From his daughter, I presume. Is that all, or would you like for me to speculate on how _she_ found out as well?”

“No, Mom, just – why are you calling me? What do you need?”

“_Need_? Oh, Michael, how _awful_. What kind of mother do you think I am?”

“Do you _really_ want me to go there?”

“Point taken,” Lucille says sharply. “But _honestly_, Michael, I don’t _need_ anything. In fact, I thought perhaps _you_ might need something, what with these… _difficult times_ you’ve been going through. I heard _somebody_ just got fired for the _fourth_ time this year.” She fails to stifle a laugh at this, and Michael rolls his eyes.

“Oh, nice, so you just called to mock me. Real mature. Well, Mother, I’ll have you know, I’m actually at a job interview at this very moment.”

“And you’re on the phone during? That hardly speaks to your dedication.”

Michael frowns. “What – Mom, I haven’t gone in yet. I’m sitting in my car outside Sitwell. I’m supposed to meet with the guy who took over for Stan at noon.”

At this, Lucille bursts out laughing, and Michael’s frown only deepens.

“What is so _funny_ about that, Mom? They’re a _legitimate_ company. I’m trying to get back on my feet. Unlike _some people_ in this family, I’m not content to just lie around on my ass all day now that we’ve hit the jackpot in the life insurance lottery.”

Lucille manages to stop laughing long enough to respond. “Oh, I’m sure they are. Tell me, Michael, did _Gob_ set up this interview for you, by any chance?”

“Uh, yeah, actually, he did. How’d you know that?” Michael asks, suspicious, and Lucille guffaws so loudly in response that he has to hold the phone away from his ear to avoid permanent hearing loss.

“Good _lord_, Mother! _Why_ is that so _funny_ to you?”

“Oh, no reason,” she replies insincerely.

Michael rolls his eyes. “Okay. Great. Well, I’m about to be late because of you, so if you don’t mind-”

Lucille hangs up then, before Michael can even finish his sentence, and he sits there in his car facepalming for a good sixty seconds afterward.

“Lovely,” he says out loud to no one. “Great start. Excellent day I’ve had today.”

He gets out of his car after that – if he stays in there any longer, he really _is_ going to be late – and makes his way inside to the front desk. His faith is somewhat restored by the fact that Sitwell Construction seems to be functioning the way a bustling development company should be; there are various business-people in suits going about their days and the phone in reception is ringing off the hook. Back at the Austero-Bluth Company earlier, he’d hardly seen anyone besides Gob and Adhir, and the few people he _did_ see hardly seemed to be working.

“Hi, my name’s Michael Bluth,” he says to the receptionist. “I’m here for a job interview?”

“Ah, yes, of course,” she replies. “Right down that hallway, third door on the left. Mr. Wonder will see you immediately.”

“Thank you,” Michael says back, then heads in that direction. He takes three and a half steps, then freezes, suddenly registering what she’d said. _What did she say this guy’s name was_? No, no, he _definitely_ misheard. He _had_ to have misheard. There’s no _way_ she said-

He glances back at the receptionist, but she’s already taking a phone call and doesn’t seem to notice him. He sighs, mentally but not physically crossing his fingers, and continues down the hall, hoping beyond hope that his mother’s obnoxious laughter had, in fact, destroyed his eardrums earlier and that he’s _not_ about to meet with who he _thinks_ he’s about to meet with.

His hopes are dashed instantly, though, once he reaches his destination. This office is done up eerily similar to Gob’s, tacky magic paraphernalia everywhere, right down to the magician seated behind the desk, facing away from Michael. Of course, needless to say, _this_ magician is a good half-foot shorter than Gob(maybe even a little more than that; is he wearing _heels_?) and his hair is black and spiky as opposed to brown and combed back.

“God _damn_ it!” Michael blurts out for the second time today.

Tony Wonder spins around dramatically. “Hello, _Michael_.”

“Hello,” Michael says blankly.

“Interesting way of greeting your new boss,” Tony continues, observing Michael skeptically.

“_Potential_ new boss,” Michael corrects, still reeling from the way Tony just said his name – he’s got Gob’s annoying little inflection down to a T. “I haven’t accepted the job yet.”

It all makes sense now – the way Lucille was laughing when he told her he was interviewing at Sitwell, Gob’s ‘connections’, that little gesture with the fingers(oh, god, he _just_ got that. was that supposed to be their _dicks_?), the fact that Tony’s name was conveniently never mentioned – this is a setup. This _has_ to be a setup. And he could’ve avoided it, too, if he’d bothered to do that Something search sooner. Come to think of it, why didn’t he just ask Prismo instead of using his phone? God damn it, he’s so used to driving that godforsaken Winnebago around everywhere that he’s forgotten half the pros of driving a smartcar. It even _greets_ him every time he gets in, so how on _earth_ – this is all George Sr’s fault, Michael decides. That’s what’s _really_ throwing him off today. What man would be stupid enough to fake his own death two separate times?

“Actually, _I_ haven’t _offered_ you the job yet,” Tony counters, bringing Michael back to the present.

Michael rolls his eyes. “Oh, _please_, like you were even going to. I’m onto you and Gob’s little game. I know what this is. I’m not _stupid_, Tony Wonder.” He pauses for a moment there, because the fact that he just had to say those words in that order _does_ make him _feel_ pretty stupid. “I know what you’re doing here, and, quite frankly, I’m insulted that you two would think for even a _moment_ that I’m dumb enough to fall for it.”

“Uh, _yeah_, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Tony says, and he sounds genuinely confused. _Good_, Michael thinks, _so I’ve caught him off guard_.

“Oh, cut the crap!” he half-shouts, eager to gain the upper hand for once. His not-so-dead father might’ve been able to pull one over his head this morning, but he’s not about to let _this guy_ get away with the same thing. “Don’t play dumb with me. This was never a job interview! It’s just another way for you people to get your sick little kicks in. It’s a _trick_. Oh, I’m sorry, excuse my language – it’s an _illusion_, if you will. I bet there’s not even a job opening here, is there? That’s why Gob never told me you were the one in charge – that’s why he wouldn’t let me listen in on his phone call, isn’t it? He was saying, ‘Hey, Tony, let’s punk my brother’ – the brother whose _only_ crime, by the way, is caring too much and being too trusting. Well, not anymore. I’m _done_ being the guy who everybody screws over. And you even got my _mom_ in on your little scheme too, didn’t you? I know she’s all buddy-buddy with you two now. You had her call me right when I was about to find out that-”

He stops there, finding himself unable to continue, because the bewildered look on Tony’s face is awfully convincing. Tony blinks several times, mostly for dramatic effect, then opens his mouth.

“Okay,” he tells Michael, his brow furrowed, “_you_ would make a _terrible_ magician.”

Michael isn’t sure what that has to do with anything, or if it’s even supposed to offend him. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“Just an observation,” Tony replies. “You can’t read a room to save your life.”

Now it’s Michael’s turn to be caught off guard. “Huh?”

Tony rolls his eyes, annoyed. “First off, there _is_ an opening here. A senior position, in fact. Which Gob knows, because I told him when it first opened. That’s a thing that _couples_ do, you know. Talk about their work days?”

Michael just stares. He _knows_ what couples do. Why does _this man_ think he doesn’t?

“Second, while I agree that there’s a Bluth brother who can be too trusting and/or caring at times, it sure as hell isn’t _you_. Gob was practically _begging_ me to let you interview for the position. He still feels guilty about you walking in on us at your dad’s funeral, and he thought this would make it up to you.”

“Oh,” Michael says, grimacing slightly at that particular memory. “Well, that’s sweet of him, I guess, but-”

“Third,” Tony continues, glaring at Michael, “he didn’t want you to overhear the phone call because we were also using it to plan our lunch date. Including the… _dessert portion_.”

It doesn’t take a genius to realize that Tony isn’t talking about food there, and Michael grimaces again. “Okay, I appreciate that, but-”

“I’m not done yet,” Tony interrupts, still glaring. “Fourth, Gob and I are _not_ all ‘buddy-buddy’ with your mother. She seems to like _me_, for some reason, but she treats him like shit. And even if she didn’t, we _are_ a gay couple, and Lucille Bluth once protested same-sex marriage by fake-marrying your other brother in a gorilla suit. That doesn’t exactly scream ‘gay rights’ to me.”

This time, Michael doesn’t try to get a word in. It _does_ make sense that the man who’s in a relationship with Gob, also a man, wouldn’t take too kindly to that particular issue of the Balboa Bay Window.

“And finally,” Tony continues with an eyeroll, “Gob didn’t tell you that I’m in charge here because he thought you already knew. It’s common knowledge, man. I mean, come _on_.”

“You do make some good points there,” Michael concedes. He doesn’t like the fact that he pretty much just got his ass handed to him on a platter by a man in winged eyeliner whose thumbs seem to get involved every time he does air quotes. In addition to that, if what Tony’s saying is true, then he’s just completely bombed this interview, and he likes that fact even less.

“Uh, _yeah_, I know I do,” Tony says, blinking.

Michael just stares again. He doesn’t believe in soul mates, not since he lost his, but if there was _ever_ a perfect match for his older brother, it’s looking him in the eye right now. “Well, um,” he says finally, “if that’s all, I think I’ll go ahead and go now. No need to waste any more of our time.” He forces a smile, then begins to turn around. _Idiot_, he thinks, and he’s not entirely sure if he’s referring to himself, his brother, his very much alive father who he still can’t stop thinking about, or Tony Wonder.

“Not so fast,” Tony calls out from behind him. “At least let me see your resume first.”

“Beg pardon?” Michael asks, turning back around.

“Do you want this job or not, Michael?” Tony asks back, rolling his eyes again.

“Really? That’s still in the cards?” Michael immediately regrets his phrasing – did he _really_ just say ‘in the cards’ to a _magician_?

Tony frowns. “Don’t do that. It’s not a good look on you.”

“Sorry,” Michael says, sitting down. “So it’s still on the table then? The, uh, _normal_ table, not a trick table or anything like that.”

“You’re making it worse. And believe me, if it were solely _my_ decision, you’d be escorted off the premises immediately without so much as a handshake.” Tony grabs the resume from Michael’s hand with a dramatic flourish, and Michael bites his tongue to resist asking who else’s decision it could possibly be. “But, yeah, I promised Gobie I’d give you a chance, so…”

Michael nods as Tony’s eyes scan over his credentials, and he chooses not to dwell on the pet name Tony just called his brother, or to point out that there’s no way he could actually be reading everything that quickly. Who knows; maybe Tony’s secretly a speed reader. Maybe he’s a speed reader and it’s not even a secret – Michael’s never paid any attention to that type of crap. And there have been enough surprises already today, so one more hardly makes a difference. And besides-

“Yeah, okay, you’re hired,” Tony says, jolting Michael from his thoughts.

“Wait, really?” he asks, moderately startled. Apparently one more surprise _does_ make a difference.

“Uh, yeah, unless you keep on bitching like that and make me change my mind,” Tony replies, rolling his eyes. “I’ll talk to HR; they’ll get you set up in an office. You start next week.”

“Huh,” Michael says. He’s in a mild state of shock over the fact that Gob _actually_ got him a job. A _normal_ job, even, not the type that involves being sawed in half or otherwise demonstrating a $30,000 waste of money disguised as an ‘illusion’.

“You’re _welcome_,” Tony responds passive-aggressively, snapping Michael out of his stupor.

“Thank you,” Michael says somewhat reluctantly.

“_Suck-up_,” Tony mutters, rolling his eyes again.

Michael’s debating whether or not to point out that he _totally_ heard that when Tony’s expression suddenly changes, morphing from a disgruntled frown into a wide, genuine smile. For a brief moment, Michael is extremely confused, and then he realizes he’s not the one Tony’s smiling at.

“Hey, Tony!” Gob’s voice says from behind him, and Michael turns around to see his older brother carrying two bags of takeout and sporting an identical grin.

“Gobie!” Tony exclaims, jumping up from his desk to greet the other man, who sets down the bags of food in a nearby empty chair.

“Oh, hey Mike,” Gob says, noticing his brother for the first time.

Michael opens his mouth to reply, but Tony reaches Gob at that exact same moment, and he’s a little too distracted by their passionate embrace to actually form any words – besides, he reasons, it’s not like Gob is paying him any attention right now. He watches with equal parts amusement and disgust as his brother leans down to kiss the other man; even with Gob bending over a little, Tony has to stand on his tiptoes in order for their lips to meet. They stop just short of a full-on makeout session, much to Michael’s relief, and reluctantly separate their faces.

“I’ve missed seeing you, Gobie,” Tony says as they pull apart.

“Same!” Gob replies. “It’s been _forever_.”

“Same!” Tony shouts, and then they kiss a second time.

“Don’t you two live together, though?” Michael says, furrowing his brow. “So you would’ve seen each other _this morning_…” he trails off there, because neither one of them seems to actually be aware of his existence at the moment.

“You’re here early, though,” Tony remarks once they separate, his arms still wrapped around Gob’s waist.

“Yeah, I thought I’d surprise you,” Gob replies, then leans back, waving his arms. “Surprise!”

Michael cringes watching this, but Tony chuckles, then pulls Gob back down for another kiss. Caught slightly off guard by it, he lets out a soft moan, and Michael rolls his eyes.

“That’s a lot of tongue going on over there, guys,” he says, hoping to remind the two men of his presence before they start ripping each other’s clothes off.

“Don’t be homophobic, _Michael_. I got you a _job_,” Gob scoffs, then turns back to Tony. “You gave him the job, right babe?”

“Yeah, Gobie, I did,” Tony replies.

“I’m not homophobic,” Michael says, but the face he makes as Gob leans down to kiss Tony for what must be the twelfth time says otherwise.

“Figured I might as well hire him,” Tony continues when he and Gob break for air, ignoring Michael, who’s still seated mere feet away, “since Sally’s been on my ass about filling the position for the past week and a half. An act of charity, really. _Clearly_ your brother needs all the charity he can get.”

“You’re so generous, babe,” Gob says seductively, trailing his hands over Tony’s chest as Michael stares in disbelief. “So generous, and so _hot_. Allow me to… _repay your generosity_, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do know what you mean, but can you give me a demonstration?” Tony replies with a flirtatious wink.

“Of course I can, babe,” Gob answers, winking back. “I can give you anything you want.”

“Careful there, Gobie,” Tony says, reaching for the top button of Gob’s shirt and popping it open. “You’re sounding pretty generous and pretty _hot_ there yourself. I might have to _repay you_ for repaying me.”

“Well, then I’ll just have to _re_-repay you,” Gob says, smirking, as Tony loosens his tie.

“Then I’ll _re_-repay _you_ right back,” Tony counters, biting his lip.

“Well, then I’ll _re_-re-repay you,” Gob insists, loosening Tony’s tie.

“And I’ll have to _re_-re-repay _you_,” Tony says, pulling Gob in closer.

“Okay, but before we do any of that, let me just _repay you_ really quick,” Gob says, sounding slightly more confused than flirtatious, and Tony nods eagerly.

Gob drops down to his knees then, his mouth dangerously close to the zipper of Tony’s pants, and Michael quickly stands up, averting his eyes.

“_Okay_,” he says loudly, hoping to distract Gob from what he’s about to do long enough to make an escape. He’d been trying to do the polite thing and wait until he was asked to leave, but that plan has very quickly gone out the window in favor of just getting out of here ASAP. He hopes to god that they’d simply forgotten he was there, because if not-

Gob nearly falls over in a panic as he scrambles away from Tony and back up onto his feet, strategically positioning himself behind a chair. “Oh _shit_. Mike, why are you still here?”

“Yeah man, what gives?” Tony asks, making no effort to conceal his erection.

Michael stares at the two of them for what feels like an eternity, again stunned into silence. He’s not sure what’s worse – that he’s apparently considered a charity case by a man who calls himself The Gay Magician, that he just had to witness his brother fully prepared to blow the aforementioned gay magician _right in front of him_, or that, since Tony Wonder is technically his boss now, there’s a very high chance that he’ll have to deal with this type of thing every single day from now until he gets fired, quits, or dies. Finally, he turns and leaves, still without a word, and shuts the door behind him.

“Well that was rude,” Gob says.

“Yeah, he’s been like that this whole time,” Tony agrees, shaking his head.

Gob drops back down to his knees in front of Tony. “So, anyway,” he says, reaching to undo Tony’s pants, “where were we?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and here's chapter 2, new and improved. all the dialogue is the same i think, but i cleaned up the sentence structure some so it flows a little smoother.

Another phone call from Lucille later, and Michael manages to deduce that ‘see you tonight’ is code for ‘family dinner at the penthouse’. Since he has nothing better to do, he shows up there at 6:30 as per his mother’s instruction, George Michael in tow, and knocks on the door. He’s expecting Lucille to open it, or maybe Lindsay or Gob or Maeby or someone, but that’s not what happens.

“Uncle Mike!” the guy who does yells, pumping his fists in the air.

“Steve Holt?” George Michael asks.

“_Steve Holt_!” Steve confirms, pumping his fists again.

_Yeah, that’s definitely him_, George Michael thinks to himself. “Why are you here? I mean, I guess you _are_ technically my cousin, but… yeah, that explains it, actually.”

“_Primos_!” Steve shouts with a grin, pumping his fists a third time, then beckons for Michael and George Michael to enter.

“That _hairline_,” Michael mutters to his son as soon as Steve’s out of earshot.

“It is pretty sad, isn’t it?” George Michael agrees.

“He’s certainly your uncle’s son,” Michael replies, nodding.

George Michael takes a moment to look around the room. He sees the uncle in question seated on one of the couches, his arm wrapped around the shoulder of Tony Wonder, who’s apparently, for better or worse, a permanent fixture at Bluth family events now. Steve has resumed his seat in one of the chairs across from them, and the three are smiling and laughing, seemingly now on good terms. Buster’s iPad-broomstick-Roomba is zipping around between the furniture, and Maeby is lounging on the other couch. Tobias is perched in the remaining chair, a heaping plate of food balanced in his lap, and Lindsay and Lucille are in the kitchen with the hired chefs, no doubt nitpicking over something trivial.

“_Mother_!” Buster yells, zooming into the kitchen. “Michael’s here!”

“About damn time!” Lucille responds, exiting the kitchen to observe her second-born son.

“Yeah, Michael, _finally_,” Lindsay chimes in, joining her.

“Okay, first of all,” Michael says, now that everyone’s staring at him, “I’m here at the _exact_ time you said for me to be, Mom, so I don’t see why you’re complaining. And it doesn’t look like you were waiting on me to start eating, either, so why’s it even an issue?”

“Yes we _were_,” Lucille replies, offended. Her eyes, narrowed, dart around the room. “Who ate something? _Lindsay_?”

Lindsay rolls her eyes, then glares. “It wasn’t me! I’ve been standing right next to you this whole entire time! You would’ve seen me!”

Lucille opens her mouth, no doubt to make some snarky remark, but an extremely loud crunching sound distracts her. Everyone turns to stare at Tobias.

“Hey gang!” he says through a mouthful of food.

Lucille facepalms dramatically. “What are you _doing_?”

“Were these not appetizers?” he asks, still chewing.

Lucille shakes her head, her mouth hanging open.

“Whoopsie,” Tobias says. “My bad, Mother Bluth.” He chuckles. “This one’s on me, gang.”

“_Idiot_,” Lindsay says under her breath.

“Okay,” Michael says, glancing back at his mother. “Well, Mom, that’s one mystery solved. Shall we go ahead and eat now?”

“Suit yourselves,” Lucille sighs, heading for the bar.

Michael shrugs and makes his way into the kitchen, as does the rest of the family. “So,” he says to Gob, after they end up reaching for the same mini quiche, “I see you invited, uh, Steve Holt.”

“Well, _yeah_, Michael, he _is_ my son,” Gob replies, stuffing the mini quiche into his mouth before Michael has a chance to grab it. He hadn’t anticipated the temperature, though, and he winds up spitting it back out into a napkin as Michael looks on in disgust. “That was – it’s too hot to eat right now,” he tries to explain. “It – it burned me a little.”

“Nice to hear you admit that,” Michael says.

“Oh, you want it? Here, you can have it.” Gob attempts to place the napkin containing the mini quiche onto Michael’s plate, which Michael yanks out of the way, causing the napkin to fall on the floor instead. “Well, I guess now it’s Buster’s.”

“No, Gob, that’s disgusting,” Michael says, still holding his plate out of Gob’s reach in case he tries anything else. “I didn’t mean about the quiche. I meant about Steve being your son.”

“Oh, right,” Gob says, reaching for a new mini quiche. “Well, you know, I just figured, might as well reach out to him, since life is so short and all. Dad found that out way too soon.”

“Gob, Dad is in his _seventies_,” Michael says, rolling his eyes at his older brother – who, now that he’s thinking about their ‘dead’ father, looks like he might cry. “His _late_ seventies, even.”

Gob freezes, his expression changing to one of shock. “_Is_?”

“_Was_,” Michael hastily corrects. “Before he died. Because he’s dead now, obviously.”

“Who’s dead?” George Michael asks from across the counter, having overheard this last bit of conversation.

“Pop-Pop,” Michael replies.

“Oh, right, yeah,” George Michael agrees. “Pop-Pop is _definitely_ dead. Definitely not alive.” He forces an awkward smile, and Michael studies him curiously, wondering how much he knows. Was the sugar thief story not enough for him?

Gob, meanwhile, is studying both Michael and George Michael in very much the same manner. Michael nods at him politely, then exits the kitchen. There’s hardly anything on his plate at the moment, but he’d rather come back for seconds later than have to spend another second around Gob right now. He briefly surveys the living and dining areas, then decides to have a seat on the couch next to Lindsay, deeming this to be the safest bet. It’s then that he notices something odd.

“You’ve got lipstick on your collar, Linds,” he points out. His sister/aunt rolls her eyes, setting her plate down on the coffee table to free up her hands.

“You know, Michael, that’s just another example of these _ridiculous_ double standards there are for women. If I were a _man_ with lipstick on my collar, you’d be like, ‘oh, good for him, he’s getting some,’ and no one would even say anything. But since I’m a _woman_, you just _had_ to point it out. Congratulations, Michael, on upholding the patriarchy. I don’t know _why_ I expected better from you.”

“Okay,” Michael says, deciding not to touch any of that. “I just thought you’d like to be aware.”

She doesn’t seem to appreciate the sentiment. “And why do you assume I’m not _already_ aware, Michael? Is it because I’m a woman?”

“No,” Michael replies. “Not at all. I, uh – how’d it get there, exactly?”

“It’s mine,” Lindsay says, much too quickly.

Michael furrows his brow. “Well, I assumed as much. Now that you mention it, though, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear that color.”

“That’s because it doesn’t look good on me. I only wear it when I’m kissing the collars of Tobias’s shirts, so it’ll look like he has a woman who cares about him.”

Michael frowns, confused. “Well, that’s, uh, certainly – shouldn’t _you_ be that woman? And wait, hang on, that’s _your_ shirt, not his. Why’d you kiss that one then?”

“It was a _mistake_, Michael. _Obviously_.” Lindsay rolls her eyes again.

Michael only has more questions now. He glances across the room at his brother-in-law, then back at Lindsay. “There’s no lipstick on the shirt he’s wearing, though. What’s going on with that?”

She scoffs. “That one’s new. I didn’t have time to do it yet.”

“I don’t think I’ve _ever_ seen him wear a shirt with lipstick on the collar, actually. What-”

“You know what, Michael, _I’m_ not the one on trial here,” Lindsay interrupts suddenly. “_I’m_ not the one who got fired four times from four different companies in the past year.”

Michael glares at her, offended. “Oh, so _I’m_ the one on trial? Not Buster, who’s a _literal_ serial killer?”

“Hey, brother,” Buster interjects from his iPad screen, which is suddenly _very_ close to Michael’s face.

“Hey, buddy,” Michael replies, briefly glancing down at him before returning to the conversation. “And by the way, Lindsay, I got hired at Sitwell today, so-”

“Oh, so you’re gonna make it _five_ times? _Impressive_,” Lindsay says sarcastically, rolling her eyes. As if to definitively end the conversation, she gets up and moves to the other side of the room, not even bothering to retrieve her plate first.

“Well, that went well,” Michael mutters to himself.

“You know, Michael,” Buster says, rolling even closer and crashing into Michael’s foot, “I don’t mean to _insult your intelligence_ or anything, but a guy in here told me that you can’t be a _serial_ killer until you kill _at least_ three people. I’ve only killed _two_, so…”

“Yeah, but pal,” Michael replies, finally acknowledging his younger brother for longer than a split second, “the fact that you’ve killed _any_ is kind of the problem here.”

“Yeah, I guess I can see your point,” Buster says, nodding in agreement.

Meanwhile, across the room, Maeby’s phone dings, and she checks it to find a text from George Michael. _Meet me on the balcony_, she reads, then shrugs and heads in that direction, where she finds her cousin pacing nervously back and forth.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey,” he replies. “Could you, uh, close the door? We need to talk.”

“If your dad sees us out here together, he’s gonna lose his shit,” Maeby remarks, smirking as she shuts the door behind her.

George Michael shakes his head. “No, I made sure he was distracted first. He’s in there talking to your mom.”

“Not anymore,” Maeby counters. “She got pissed off and left for some reason. I’d give it about 90 seconds before he gets up and starts looking for you so he can complain about it.”

“Damn it,” says George Michael. “What do you think happened?”

Maeby takes a moment to think it over, and George Michael takes a sip from his drink. “My best guess? She thinks he found out that she’s banging Sally Sitwell.”

George Michael does a spit take. “That she’s _what_?”

“Oh, shit, did you not know about that?”

George Michael shakes his head.

“My bad. I thought you figured it out this morning when I said ‘house’.”

“Nope,” George Michael says, still shaking his head. He’d been suspicious, admittedly, but he’d chosen not to think too much about it then. He doesn’t particularly want to think about it _now_, either, for that matter, and he shudders.

“Yeah, she came home from work this afternoon with Sally’s lipstick all over her collar,” Maeby continues. “My dad didn’t even notice. I don’t think _she_ noticed, either, or she would’ve changed before we left. But _I_ wasn’t gonna be the one to tell her.”

George Michael cringes. “Okay – _that’s_… can we talk about something other than the fact that apparently your mom is dating my dad’s ex-girlfriend?”

Maeby shrugs. “Well, I mean, technically, so am I. Only _my_ girlfriend is also _your_ ex.”

George Michael facepalms. “Yeah, but that’s – god, Maeby, why are we like this? Why is that such a recurring theme in this family?”

She shrugs again. “I don’t know, but it keeps things interesting.”

“Yeah, it… I guess it does,” he somewhat reluctantly agrees.

Several seconds pass by awkwardly before Maeby remembers the reason they’re out on the balcony in the first place. “Hey, didn’t you say you needed to talk to me?”

“Yeah,” George Michael replies, grateful for the change in conversation topic. “I did.”

“So?”

He takes a step closer to her, his eyes darting around nervously. “I can trust you with this, right? I mean, this is a… kind of a sensitive topic here. There’s some – there’s some stuff going on that might not be entirely legal.”

“Spill, George Michael,” Maeby insists, rolling her eyes. She’d be more alarmed if whatever’s going on _was_ legal.

“Okay, so, this morning, in the camper…”

She leans in closer. “Yeah?”

“That wasn’t – it wasn’t really a guy trying to steal our sugar,” George Michael admits. “That’s just what my dad told me, because he didn’t want me to worry about it.”

“_No_,” Maeby breathes in mock disbelief.

“It was – I mean, I can’t say for sure, but I think it was…” he trails off for a moment, silently doubting his decision to reveal everything to his cousin. It had taken him barely eighteen hours to crack under the pressure. _Well_, _there’s no going back now_, he decides. “It was Pop-Pop. He’s still alive. Which means we’re committing insurance fraud.”

Maeby takes a few seconds to digest this information, then nods solemnly. “Well, you know what you have to do now, George Michael. Track him down, and kill him for real. You can borrow my sword, if you want.”

George Michael frowns. “Did you _bring_ the sword?”

Maeby frowns right back at him. “Of course not. Uncle Gob is here. He’d want it back.”

“Right, right, duh,” George Michael responds, and then it sinks in what she actually just said. “Wait, but that’s not – I can’t do that, Maeby. I can’t kill my own grandfather.”

“Why not? He’s supposed to be dead anyway. It’s not illegal to kill a guy if he’s already dead.”

“Did Barry tell you that?”

Maeby scoffs. “No, it’s just common sense.”

“Yeah, I don’t think-”

That’s when the door suddenly reopens, and Michael steps out onto the balcony. “Hey, George Michael,” he says. “What’s, uh – what’s going on out here? You’re standing awfully close to your cousin there, son.”

“Oh, he was just telling me how hot my ass looks in these jeans,” Maeby replies, smirking as she sidesteps Michael and reenters the penthouse. Michael glares at his son.

“_George Michael_!” he shouts.

“Dad, I didn’t – I _swear_ that’s not what I was saying. I would _never_ – you know how Maeby is. She’s just messing with you,” George Michael stammers.

“Okay, son, I believe you,” Michael says, although he doesn’t look like he actually does. “Let’s go ahead and make our way back inside now, okay? Just maybe try to keep it a little further away from your cousin.”

“Right, okay,” George Michael replies, following his father back into the penthouse, where he observes the scene spread out before him. Gob and Tony are seated on the couch again, apparently very absorbed in each other’s tongues, while his grandmother is still hanging around the bar, vodka tonic in hand. Lindsay’s wearing a scarf now, and talking to Maeby, while elsewhere Steve Holt, Tobias, and Buster’s iPad-broomstick-Roomba appear to be having a conversation. He decides to join them, for no reason other than the fact that Maeby’s not involved and he _really_ doesn’t want to push any more of his father’s buttons.

“Hey, guys,” he says, walking up to the two and a half men.

“Hey, nephew,” Buster says from the screen.

“_George Michael_!” Steve Holt shouts, pumping his fists in the air before enthusiastically clapping his cousin on the back.

“George Michael, how rude, I was in the middle of speaking,” Tobias says, glaring.

“Sorry,” George Michael replies, but Tobias shushes him.

“Enough interruptions!” Tobias insists. “Now, anyway, watch this.” He strikes a comedic pose that George Michael suspects is meant to be dramatic, then raises his voice to an obnoxious level. “I WONDER what’s about to happen!”

“Son of a bitch,” Tony mutters into Gob’s mouth, then jumps up, appearing dramatically next to Tobias in a puff of glitter and smoke. “Did somebody say _wonder_?”

Buster shrieks and breaks into applause, which Steve Holt awkwardly joins in on. Tobias bows and blows kisses to his nonexistent audience, as though he’s the one being cheered for – and in his mind, George Michael suspects, he is. George Michael just stands there, unsure how to react, and he gets the feeling this isn’t the first, or even the second or third, time this has happened tonight.

“He’s done that eight times now,” Steve whispers to George Michael, who nods. “I don’t think Tony Wonder likes it very much.”

Michael, meanwhile, notices Tony’s empty seat and decides to seize the opportunity to prevent any more incidents like the one he witnessed at Sitwell earlier. “Hey, Gob,” he says, sitting down.

“Uh, _Michael_, that seat’s _taken_,” Gob replies, frowning.

“Really?” Michael asks, playing dumb. “Who was sitting here?”

Gob rolls his eyes. “Tony was, Michael. I know you’re not _that_ stupid.”

“Okay,” Michael replies, rolling his eyes right back. Apparently playing dumb was the wrong move here. “So, uh, I can’t help but notice, you and Tony seem to be _awfully_ close,” he continues, emphasizing the ‘awful’ part in a less-than-subtle manner.

“Well, _yeah_,” Gob says back, still looking at Michael like he thinks he’s stupid. “We – we love each other.” He blushes a little there, because he’s not used to admitting things like that so casually to _Michael_ of all people. “Haven’t you ever heard that phrase, ‘love each other’? It’s from the bible, or something. Or do they not have that for _robots_?”

Michael rolls his eyes again, both because of the robot jab and because the concept of his older brother being in love is, quite frankly, ridiculous – although he _supposes_ the fact that it’s with another man makes a _little_ more sense. In the background he can hear Tobias yelling the word ‘wonder’ for the thousandth time, followed by Tony’s catchphrase and then applause from Buster and Steve, and tonight suddenly feels impossibly long. He considers pointing out Gob’s hypocrisy in using the bible as a reference point, but he decides that’s not the battle he wants to pick right now.

Instead, he just sighs. “Of course I’ve heard that phrase, Gob. It was the last thing Pete said to me before he died in my arms.”

“Who the hell is Pete?” Gob asks, looking confused. Michael’s feeling slightly confused himself – haven’t they been over this already?

“He was a _mailman_ – you know what, it’s not important.”

Gob still looks confused, yet somehow smug at the same time. “Uh, last time _I_ checked, _all_ men are male.”

Michael fights the urge to facepalm. “Gob, that’s not what I-”

“Wait, you had a guy die in your arms? That sounds kind of gay.”

This time, Michael actually does facepalm. “Gob, you’re _literally_ gay.”

Gob frowns again. “Uh, _yeah_, guy, I _know_. What’s your point? Are you being homophobic again?”

“Nevermind,” Michael says, deciding to just drop it altogether since he’s _clearly_ making no progress here. He starts to get up off the couch. “Enjoy your honeymoon phase, I guess. It won’t last forever.”

Gob looks extremely suspicious now. “H-_honeymoon_ phase? Sh-should, should – we’re not – we’re not even _married _yet.”

“No, I know that,” Michael says, puzzled by his brother’s reaction. Suddenly he feels compelled to stay seated. “It’s just an expression.”

Gob, meanwhile, doesn’t look convinced, and his eyes dart wildly around the room. “Did somebody say something to you? Who said anything about – did – should-”

That’s when Michael finally registers what Gob just implied. “Hang on, did you say ‘_yet_’? Gob, are you – are you two _engaged_?”

“No, Michael!” Gob hisses, reaching for Michael’s face as if to quiet him forcefully. “Shut up! Keep your voice down!”

Michael scoots a little further away, avoiding his brother’s hands. “Gob-”

“We’re not engaged _yet_, either,” Gob whispers, his eyes still darting around the room.

“You talk about it like you’ve got plans to be,” Michael whispers back. He can still hear his brother-in-law and his (apparently) potential future brother-in-law going back and forth somewhere nearby, and he’s not sure if this background noise is better or worse than the conversation he’s currently having.

“Shhh!” Gob hisses again, his finger pressed to his lips.

“Gob, what are you saying?” Michael asks, his brow furrowed in both confusion and disapproval. “Are you – are you planning to _propose_ to him? On _purpose_?”

“Shut _up_, Michael!” Gob whisper-shouts, and this time he actually slaps Michael in the face. “I _never_ said that! But yes.”

“_Ow_,” Michael says, rubbing his cheek. “And also, _wow_. I didn’t know you two were _that_ serious.”

He _did_ know that, but he also wants to make Gob doubt this major decision before he goes through with it. Having _one_ magician in the family is bad enough, but _two_-

“Michael, we’re _so_ serious,” Gob replies, his face equally serious, and Michael nearly pops a blood vessel trying to refrain from rolling his eyes. “We’ve been exclusive the whole time we’ve been dating. We don’t even use condoms anymore.”

Michael would have preferred not to know that last part, and he grimaces. “Oh yeah? When did that start? Because when I walked in on you two at Dad’s funeral, you _were_ wearing condoms. Both of you. Which was a little weird, in my opinion.”

Gob rolls his eyes. “No it _wasn’t_. That was just a precaution. We didn’t want to get any jizz on our $15,000 suits. Would _you_ have-”

“Okay, Gob, _okay_,” Michael says, holding up his hand for his brother to stop talking. “I’ve heard enough.” He decides to focus on the one part of what Gob just said that _wasn’t_ completely disgusting(at least, not for _that_ reason). “You really paid _$15,000_ for those?”

Gob nods. “$15,000 _each_. Shrapnel-grade glitter can be _pretty_ expensive when it’s made of crushed diamonds. And they were worth every penny, too. Dad would have been _so_ proud.”

“I don’t think he would have, but whatever makes you feel good, I guess,” Michael replies, shaking his head, careful this time not to inadvertently reveal that George Sr is only a dead man in the metaphorical sense.

Gob grins. “Oh, trust me, Michael, it felt _very_ good, if you know what I mean.”

“You’re talking about the sex again, aren’t you?” Michael asks, regretting the question even before it leaves his mouth.

“Damn straight!” Gob exclaims, holding up his hand for a high-five.

“I think you mean damn _gay_,” Michael corrects without reciprocating. “There’s nothing _straight_ about what I saw in that bathroom.”

Gob glares at him. “Why are you like this, Mike? Why do you always have to be so _homophobic_ about everything?”

“Gob, I’m _not_-”

Michael is interrupted by a puff of smoke and glitter, both of which fill his lungs and send him into a coughing fit – _did Tony aim that towards my face on purpose_? he wonders. When it all clears, and when he’s able to breathe again, he notices Tony Wonder in his brother’s lap, the two magicians having resumed their makeout session undeterred by Michael’s strategic positioning. _Great_, Michael thinks to himself, _so I’ve accomplished nothing_. But at least if Gob is distracted by Tony then he’s not focusing on Michael’s little slip-up from earlier, so that’s one good thing.

_One good thing in a sea of bad ones_, he thinks as he stands back up. He remains rooted to that spot for a moment, almost hypnotized by the _audacity_ of his brother’s blatant PDA, then shakes his head and walks off. It seems like just _yesterday_ he was trying to talk Gob out of sabotaging Tony Wonder’s career, and now _this_? When did they go from a one-sided rivalry to pre-engaged? He needs a drink, or maybe a lot of drinks. George Michael can be his designated driver. Once he makes it over to the bar, however, he runs into another problem.

“Not so fast, Michael,” Lucille insists, grabbing him by the arm as he reaches for a glass. Her grip is disturbingly strong for a seventy-something-year-old woman. “You and alcohol? What an _embarrassing_ combination.”

Michael glares. “Oh, come on, is this about the funeral? That was _your_ fault, Mother. You literally set me up for that.”

Lucille glares right back. “What, and you think I’ve forgotten?”

Michael shrugs, so she continues. “I haven’t, Michael. I’m very well aware. But you should hear what the women at the club say. Awful, _awful_ things. They should be comforting _me_, Michael! I’m a grieving widow! Instead, all they gossip about is _you_ and your little _display_ at the eulogy. It’s just _distasteful_.”

“Ah, okay,” Michael replies, rolling his eyes. “So, just to make sure I’m hearing what I think I’m hearing: you wanted to ruin your husband’s funeral, so you set _your own son_ up to get blackout drunk, I did what you wanted me to, you got your way, but now you’re mad because the ladies at the club talk about me instead of you. And, of course, this is _my_ fault somehow, so as revenge you won’t let me drink.”

“I’m glad you understand,” Lucille says, patting Michael’s arm. “And I don’t care if you _drink_; I just don’t want you drinking any of _my_ liquor. I’ve got enough of a thorn in my side having to deal with _that one_ over there.” She gestures with her glass towards Tony Wonder, slinging vodka halfway across the room as she does so, and Michael frowns. “_Talk_ about a _lightweight_. I challenged him to a drinking contest last weekend; barely ten minutes and a dozen shots in and he was being violently ill all over my good towels. _Disgusting_.”

“So you’re letting _him_ drink?” Michael asks in disbelief, choosing not to contest his mother’s apparent definition of ‘lightweight’. “But not me? Your _own son_?”

“I’m not _letting_ him do _anything_,” Lucille replies, brow creased and mouth hanging half-open, as though Michael’s question was somehow unreasonable.

“He’s got a drink in his hand,” Michael points out.

“Oh, your brother gave him that when I wasn’t looking,” Lucille scoffs, waving her hand dismissively and slinging vodka all over the place a second time. Michael glares again, and she shrugs. “I say let him have it. How else is he supposed to build up his tolerance? And believe me, Michael, he’s got _a lot_ of building up to do. You should’ve seen him last weekend, sick as a dog. Nearly gave Gob a heart attack. It was _hysterical_.” She laughs just remembering, and Michael rolls his eyes.

“Right,” Michael sighs, shaking his head. “Well, Mother, this has been great and all, but I think my son and I might go ahead and take off. Great seeing you.”

Lucille frowns. “Michael, you can’t leave yet. I haven’t even made _the announcement_.”

“The _announcement_?” Michael asks, his eyebrows raised. He does _not_ like the way she said that word. “What _announcement_, Mom?”

“Oh, you’ll see,” she replies, winking, and Michael cringes.

He flashes back to this morning, suddenly suspicious. “It’s not about Dad, is it?”

Now Lucille looks suspicious. “Why would it be about your father? The funeral’s _over_. We’re _done_ with him, Michael. He’s dead and gone.”

“Just checking,” Michael says, still eyeing his mother with caution.

He realizes then that he has no idea how much she may or may not know, and he studies her face intently hoping for some sort of tell. Unfortunately, all he sees is an expression mirroring his own as she returns his gaze. He decides there has to be about a 50/50 chance that she’s in on the whole thing – but if she _is_, he has no idea how to get her to admit to it. And, on the other hand, if she _isn’t_, he doesn’t want to be the one who clues her in. She hadn’t known the first time George Sr faked his death, he remembers, but that had been so long ago… It’s an interesting dilemma, for certain, but not necessarily anything out of the ordinary for the Bluth family.

Michael breaks eye contact first, then walks away without another word, and he can feel Lucille’s eyes burning holes in his back the entire time. As he tries to ignore the feeling, he can’t help but notice that, at some point within the last minute or so, Gob and Tony seem to have disappeared from their spot on the couch. Steve Holt is sitting there now, alone, and Michael joins him.

“Hey, Uncle Mike,” Steve says.

“Hey, Steve,” he replies, then asks a question he knows he’ll regret. “Where’d your dad go?”

“I think he’s in the bathroom,” Steve says, and Michael cringes internally even before Steve continues speaking. “Tony Wonder’s in there with him, which I _guess_ isn’t weird since they’re dating and all, but personally, I would _never_…”

Michael stares at his balding, overweight nephew, trying to figure out what exactly he thinks his father is doing in that bathroom. His outward appearance clashes with his apparent naivety in a way that Michael _cannot stand_. “Steve, you know they’re in there having sex, right?”

“_Oh_,” Steve says, the realization dawning on him. “Oh, okay. That makes _way_ more sense.” He’s smiling, but the smile disappears as the news fully sinks in. “_Oh_,” he repeats, cringing a little this time.

“Sorry to be the one to break it to you,” Michael says, even though he isn’t really. There’s something about having Steve there that he just _doesn’t like_. The guy seems way too happy all the time, and what does he even have to be happy about anyway? He looks _terrible_, his father is… well, _Gob_, and-

“No, it’s cool,” Steve says, and that annoying grin is back. “I probably should’ve figured that much out on my own.”

“It doesn’t bother you?” Michael asks. “That your dad would invite you to a family get-together and then ditch you to go get sleazy with another man in my mother’s bathroom?”

“Well, he didn’t call it a family get-together,” Steve replies. “He called it a father-son double date, except he said I couldn’t bring my girlfriend because that’d just make things awkward. And that’s probably for the best, anyway, because there’s a lot of history there, and-”

Michael doesn’t care about any of that. “So you’re pretty much a third wheel then, huh?” he asks, pretending he doesn’t realize he just interrupted Steve mid-sentence.

“If you’re a glass half-empty guy, then yeah,” Steve says, shrugging. “I’m more of a glass two-thirds full kind of guy myself, so I like to look on the bright side of things. I’m just happy to be invited.”

Michael tries very hard not to roll his eyes, and half of his face starts twitching as a result. Steve, oblivious, keeps on talking.

“Although, I do have to say, you guys can be a little… _harsh_ with each other. I’ve heard some really hurtful stuff being said tonight, and everybody just acts like it’s normal. It almost makes me _glad_ I’ve never been included before.”

“Uh-huh,” Michael replies, only half listening. He notices a liquor glass(_more_ than two thirds full) sitting on the coffee table, and he very seriously considers picking it up and chugging it. He decides against it, though – it most likely belongs to either Gob or Tony Wonder, who have been swapping spit(and god knows what else) all night, and he has no interest in ingesting _that_ backwash.

“But, you know, on the other hand, it’s been a really healing experience for me. It answers a lot of questions that have bothered me for a while. Like, for example, why my dad is the way he is about me. He does _care_; he just doesn’t know how to show it. He has no idea how to be a parent, because his own parents were such terrible examples. I mean, seeing how your mother treats him – whoa, Uncle Mike, are you falling asleep?”

Michael fake-wakes-up from his fake slumber, then fakes a yawn for good measure. “Sorry, Steve. Didn’t get a lot of rest last night, so…” he trails off, and Steve nods. “That’s…mature of you, I guess,” he continues, since Steve is still looking at him, and Steve shrugs.

Michael tries to force a smile, but it’s difficult – he’s getting more annoyed with Steve Holt by the second. Who the hell does this guy think he is, coming in here and talking about the Bluths like that? It’s all true, of course, but _he_ doesn’t get to say it. Except that – well, technically, yes, he _is_ one of them. Michael always forgets that somehow. _Damn it, Gob_, Michael thinks to himself, _you couldn’t keep it in your pants in high school and you can’t keep it in your pants now_. Why couldn’t Gob have had his whole coming-to-terms-with-his-sexuality thing back then, _before_ he knocked up Steve’s mother? It’s like Gob _always_ has to make _everything_ difficult for him. _Like father like son_, he thinks – oh, god _damn_ it, he’d actually managed to forget about George Sr for a moment, but now it’s all coming back. _Thanks a lot, Gob_.

“Hey, Dad?” George Michael says from behind him.

“Yeah, George Michael?” he responds. He immediately jumps up off the couch, eager for any excuse to end his intimate chat with Steve.

“Can we talk? Like, out on the balcony?” George Michael asks.

“Sure thing, son,” Michael answers, heading in that direction. George Michael follows him, and shuts the door behind them once they’re outside.

“So, um…” George Michael starts, trailing off.

“Yeah?” Michael asks, his eyebrows raised. “What is it, son?”

George Michael freezes – he can’t just come right out and _say_ that he knows what really happened in the camper this morning. “Fun party, huh?”

Michael frowns. “Is it, though?”

“Well, yeah, I thought so. I mean, it’s nice to – it’s nice to see the family.” He’s hoping that by saying that he can ease into the real issue at hand, the _other_ member of the family that he’d happened to _see_.

“You mean your cousin?” Michael looks suspicious, and for the wrong reason. _Damn it_, George Michael thinks to himself.

“No, Dad, I mean _everyone_. You know, Gangie, Aunt Lindsay, Uncle Tobias, Uncle Gob, Uncle Buster – well, you know, _kind of_, anyway…”

“Not Pop-Pop, though,” Michael interjects.

“No, of course not Pop-Pop,” George Michael hastily agrees. “I haven’t seen _him_ tonight.”

“Or at all,” Michael replies.

“Or at all,” George Michael repeats. “_Tonight_, I mean.”

Michael raises his eyebrows. “Well, yeah, son, of course you haven’t. Nobody has. Nobody will be seeing him for a very long time, I’d imagine. Because he’s dead.”

“Yeah,” George Michael says, attempting to force a smile. This isn’t going the way he’d wanted it to in the slightest, and he’s not sure how to remedy that. “Except-” he starts, searching for the right words, and that’s when the glass door shatters.

He immediately jumps back, as does his father, both narrowly avoiding the barrage of crystal shards that rain down from the now-empty frame.

“_Oh_,” Buster says from his iPad screen on the other side, “so I guess that _wasn’t_ open.”

“Uh, no, buddy,” Michael replies, having regained his composure almost immediately, “no, it was not.”

“Oops,” Buster says, giggling. “Sorry, brother. Sorry, nephew. It’s kind of hard to tell, through the camera and everything.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” Michael says, observing the damage.

George Michael is still too stunned to speak, so he stares at his uncle wordlessly. _What the fuck just happened_? he thinks to himself.

“_Anyway_, Mother has an announcement,” Buster continues casually in a sing-song voice, as though he _hasn’t_ just destroyed what must be several thousand dollars’ worth of plate glass. Michael and George Michael exchange glances.

“_Buster_!” Lucille shrieks, appearing beside the iPad-broomstick-Roomba. “Have you lost your damn mind? Is there _nothing_ underneath that thick skull of yours?”

“My skull isn’t thick, _Mother_!” Buster snaps back. “_You_ of all people should know that!”

“All I know is you’re costing me a fortune!” Lucille yells. “First with the medical bills, then the legal fees, and now this glass door that I’ll have to replace! I’ll have to shell out extra, too, since _apparently_ they’ll need to make it _idiot_-proof!”

“Oh, yeah, that’s just _lovely_, _Mother_!” Buster shouts back, spinning the Roomba in an angry circle. “Why don’t you just go ahead and bring on the _death threats_, too? Let’s make it a _party_!”

Lucille glares. “Oh, how ironic. _You_, a _murderer_, accusing _me_ of making death threats!”

By this point, Tobias, Lindsay, Maeby, and Steve Holt have also made their way over to investigate the crashing sound and subsequent shouting match. Buster sticks his tongue out at Lucille, who retaliates by slapping the iPad screen, which falls over backwards as Buster screams dramatically.

“Oh, don’t be such a wuss,” Lucille sighs, shaking her head, and Michael can’t help but facepalm at everything that’s happening. Not even a full day back and he’s already caught in the middle of mass chaos.

“What is going on out here?” Gob asks suddenly, emerging from the direction of the bathroom. His hair is a mess, his shirt, half untucked, appears to have been hastily re-buttoned, and his fly is unzipped, none of which he seems to be aware of. “I heard screaming. Did Buster kill somebody else with robot hand mind control?”

“He doesn’t even _have_ the robot hand anymore,” Lindsay points out, rolling her eyes at her brother’s ensemble.

“Oh right, yeah, I forgot about that,” Gob says. He takes a step closer, inadvertently positioning himself directly above Buster’s fallen iPad screen. “Hey, what happened to the door? Didn’t there used to be glass in that thing?”

Lucille facepalms, and Michael just stares.

“Nice outfit, Uncle Gob,” Maeby says sarcastically, which seems to confuse her uncle.

He starts to reply, but Buster happens to look up right at that moment, and, seeing inside the fly of his oldest brother’s pants, begins screaming again. This startles Gob, and he jumps backwards in a panic, coincidentally no longer obstructing his youngest brother’s vision. Satisfied, Buster quiets down.

“Uh, Dad,” Steve Holt awkwardly points out, “I think your fly is down.”

Gob looks down at himself, and, realizing his son is right, quickly zips it back up. “Thanks, Steve,” he says, patting him on the back.

“You’re welcome!” Steve says brightly, choosing not to think about where his father’s hand had undoubtedly been in the few minutes before it made contact with his shirt. Everyone else just stares at Gob, who’s starting to look slightly uncomfortable with all the attention he’s receiving.

“Well, uh, I should probably get back to Tony,” he says somewhat sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Me and him were, um, kind of in the middle of something, if you know what I mean.”

Unfortunately, everyone does, but no one says anything as Gob turns around and returns to the bathroom. Once they hear the door open and close again, Buster is the first one to speak.

“I think he had, like, a _major_ boner going on just now,” he says, sounding mildly disgusted. “That’s right, _Mother_! I say ‘boner’ now!”

“Yes, I observed the same thing,” Tobias agrees. Lindsay and Maeby frown at him. Lucille rolls her eyes dramatically, and George Michael cringes.

“_Okay_,” says Michael, who’s starting to _really_ regret attending tonight’s get-together, and everyone turns to look at him. “What was your announcement, Mother?”

“At least come back inside first,” she replies, shaking her head. “What do you think we are, standing in a circle around a mound of broken glass? We’re _millionaires_, Michael, not some gathering of Hispanics in a Home Depot parking lot.”

“_Alright_, Mom,” Michael says, shaking his head. He steps over the glass pile and through the empty doorframe, then assists his son in doing the same. George Michael sets Buster’s iPad-broomstick-Roomba back upright as he walks past, and his youngest uncle rolls behind him and Michael as they make their way over to the sofa.

Once they get there, Maeby sits down next to George Michael, and Michael immediately plops himself down right between them, his stance unnecessarily wide to prevent the two cousins from being able to reach each other. Steve sits solo on the other couch, and Tobias and Lindsay take the chairs, the latter doing something on her phone while the former watches his mother-in-law with rapt attention. Buster rolls up right next to where Lucille is standing, which leads Michael to believe that the ‘announcement’ must involve him. _Then again_, he thinks to himself, _Buster would probably do that no matter what_.

“We’re waiting, Mother,” Michael prompts, a little impatient, as he watches his mother down a glass of what he suspects is straight-up vodka. He’s also fairly certain he can hear some not-so-family-friendly noises echoing from the direction of the bathroom, and he wishes _someone_ would say _something_, if only to drown those out.

“Don’t rush her, Michael!” Buster snaps.

“Indeed, Michael,” Tobias chimes in. “Rome wasn’t discussed in a day. Or was it? I have no idea; I wasn’t there.” He pauses for a moment, then stands up. “Or _was_ I? Let’s try a quick little scene.”

“Let’s not,” Lindsay counters without looking up.

“Very well then!” Tobias jovially concedes, sitting back down. “My wife says no, and since we are _so_ in love, I must abide by her desires.” He chuckles, then waves toward Lucille. “Mother Bluth, you may _retake the stage_.”

“She doesn’t need _your_ permission!” Buster snaps.

Lucille finally finishes downing her drink. “For the love of god, _Buster_, would you give it a rest? I’m perfectly capable of speaking for myself. Good _grief_.”

“You’re taking long enough getting around to that,” Michael points out, and Lucille rolls her eyes.

“For god’s sake, Michael, I was finishing my drink. _What_-”

“I’ve been eating _cheese_, Mother,” Buster proudly announces, interrupting her mid-sentence. “Somebody left a _quiche_ on the floor in your kitchen earlier, and I helped myself.”

“That’s not-” George Michael starts, his brow furrowed in confusion – he doubts they serve quiche in prison, but surely Buster isn’t talking about _here_? Then again, that would certainly explain all that… _stuff_ he’d seen smeared on the underside of the Roomba and streaked across the floor.

“It’s not worth it, son,” Michael says, patting his son on the knee.

Lucille stares at her youngest son for a brief second, then observes the rest of the family. “And you people wonder why I drink,” she remarks. Tobias excitedly looks around the room when he hears the word ‘wonder’, but nothing happens, save for more muffled noises of passion echoing from the bathroom.

“I don’t think anyone was wondering that, actually, Mom,” Michael says. Normally he’d avoid that word, but since Tony Wonder is _clearly_ occupied at the moment he feels safe in using it, just this once. Again Tobias excitedly surveys the room, and again nothing happens.

“_Anyway_-” Lucille begins, then pauses for a moment as a particularly loud moaning noise, followed by a very telling silence, can be heard from the other room. Michael glares at her, fully convinced she’d somehow done that just to spite him.

“Well, sounds like Gob should be rejoining us in a moment,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Should we go ahead and wait for him now, too?”

“_Absolutely_ not,” Lucille answers – sarcasm or not, she _abhors_ the idea. She decides to get straight to the point. “I got a call from the DA’s office this morning. You know Lottie Dottie, that _BITCH_!” She shouts the last word while glaring at the wall, in very much the same manner as she used to when discussing Lucille Austero.

“I know _her_, yeah,” Michael replies. “Did _not_ know she lived next door to you, though.”

“She doesn’t,” Lucille says curtly.

“Well, you could’ve fooled me,” Michael responds. He looks back and forth between George Michael and Maeby, hoping one of them will back him up, but neither does.

“Anyway,” Lucille continues, “she called me this morning about Buster’s trial.”

“Why?” Michael asks, puzzled. “Hasn’t that been over with for a while now?” He glances around the room, again hoping someone will back him up on this, again with no luck. “You know, _months_ ago? Mistrial, anyone? _Any_ of this ringing a bell?”

Steve Holt shrugs, and Lindsay still doesn’t even look up from her phone.

“That was the _old_ trial, Michael,” Lucille says. “I’m talking about the new one.”

“Why is there a new one?” It occurs to Michael then that he hasn’t been keeping up with Buster at all. He’d taken him back to prison, and that had been the end of it – or so he’d thought, anyway. “He already confessed. Aren’t we done with this?”

“Uh, _wow_, Michael,” Buster says, giggling condescendingly. “I confessed, _yeah_, but not in a _courtroom_.”

“Why does it need to be in a courtroom?” Michael asks, his brow furrowed. “Everybody already knows you did it, buddy. Is that not good enough for the law?”

“Oh, Michael, _please_,” his mother insists. “Don’t you think your brother deserves the right to a fair trial?”

“It _is_ a fundamental human right of every human citizen,” Tobias chimes in. “I would know; I used to date a lawyer.”

Lindsay rolls her eyes at that, which Tobias doesn’t seem to notice.

“_I’m_ a human citizen, Michael,” Buster adds.

Michael stares at his brother-in-law, then at Lucille, then finally at Buster, and begins to open his mouth. “Okay, _yeah_, but-”

“As I was saying,” Lucille continues, interrupting him, “they’ve set a date. The first of August.”

“So what’s the announcement, Mom?” Michael asks, annoyed.

She glares at him in disbelief. “I just told you! Were you not paying attention? _Honestly_, Michael-”

“No, I heard you,” he replies. “Just didn’t realize that _that_… okay then.” He’d been expecting something a little less… _anticlimactic_, what with how over-the-top his mother had been acting about it. But he supposes this is better than the huge dramatic reveal he’d been anticipating, so he decides not to complain. Instead, he stands up and heads for the door, and his mother rolls her eyes at him all the way there.

“Where do you think you’re going, Michael?” she asks.

“Uh, well, I’m leaving, Mom,” he replies, crossing his arms. “You told me to stay for the announcement, and now I’ve heard the announcement. Come on, George Michael. Let’s get out of here.”

“Um, okay,” George Michael replies, still seated on the couch. “Just let me say goodbye first.”

Michael nods, one hand resting on the door handle, and that’s when Gob and Tony, hand in hand, finally emerge from the bathroom and make their way down the hallway to the living area. This time, fortunately, Gob’s pants are fully zipped up and his shirt is properly buttoned, although the slightly-disheveled state of his hair still serves as somewhat of an unpleasant reminder of what he’d just been doing.

“Hey, Michael,” he says, pausing at the front door as he notices his brother.

“Hey, Gob,” Michael replies, as judgmentally as he can manage, hoping to shame some sense into Gob. “I have to say, I’m surprised to see you walking, after all that noise _the whole family_ overheard just now.”

“Oh, no, it was just hands,” Gob scoffs, holding up the hand that’s holding Tony’s as if to demonstrate. “You know, since I just ate and everything, we wouldn’t-”

“Just hands, huh?” Michael interrupts, making no effort to conceal his disgust at what he’s hearing. “_Really_? All of _that_ from just _hands_? I’d _hate_ to hear what you sound like when you two do more than that.”

He considers adding that he’s already had the misfortune of finding out, but he _really_ doesn’t want to think about the funeral incident any more than he already has – and, either way, he knows Gob would interpret that as an invitation to say something else _disgusting_.

“Yeah, Tony’s _really_ good with his hands,” Gob replies, blushing slightly. He’s apparently too distracted by the thought of Tony’s hands to realize he’s being mocked. “I mean really, _really_ good.”

“Yeah, _all_ magicians are, especially with those long fingers of yours,” Tony says, winking at Gob. He then turns to Michael, all the warmth disappearing from his expression. “It’s a _magician_ thing. _You_ wouldn’t understand.”

“No,” Michael agrees, “no, I would not.”

That’s when George Michael walks up. “H-hey, Dad,” he says, deliberately avoiding eye contact with his uncle and his uncle’s boyfriend. “Are we leaving now, or-”

“Yeah, son. Yeah, we are,” Michael answers, quickly turning the door handle and ushering George Michael out of the apartment.

“See ya, Mother!” he calls out as he closes the door behind them. It’s the _exact_ same thing his father said to him this morning, save for the name, but he decides he doesn’t care. George Sr doesn’t _own_ that phrase, for crying out loud.

“You’ll be back!” she calls out just before the door shuts completely.

Michael can’t resist opening it again for one last word. “Yeah, I feel like ‘see ya’ kind of implies that much.”

_It does_, he realizes again, and he does _not_ like that implication. His mother is yelling something back at him now, but he doesn’t bother listening. He’s got enough on his mind without whatever else it is she has to say added into the mix.

-

He and George Michael don’t speak again until they’re back in the car. “Well,” Michael says finally, as they exit the Balboa Towers parking lot, “that went about how I expected it to. How about you, son?”

“Actually, Dad,” George Michael replies, “I was half expecting to you to say we’re out of the family again when you opened your mouth just now.”

Michael nods, then shakes his head. “Yeah, it was pretty bad. Especially your Uncle Gob. I don’t know what the _hell_ has gotten into him. Or I guess I should say _who_, huh?”

He pauses for a moment, nudging his son. “No, well, I do know _who_. I just wish I knew _why_. You know, he roofied me the first time I found out they were sleeping together, he was so ashamed. And now he’s perfectly comfortable doing _that_ where _everybody_ can hear him? I gotta say, I kind of preferred him when he was in denial.”

He pauses again. “That must make me sound like an asshole, huh?”

“Yeah, kind of,” George Michael replies. Michael frowns at him – he was _supposed_ to say that it made Michael sound perfectly reasonable and not like an asshole at all. George Michael doesn’t seem to be aware of this, though, because he keeps on talking. “I mean, I – I get where you’re coming from, I guess. But I’m glad he’s happy. I just… yeah, I do kind of wish he wouldn’t get _so_, um, _happy_ at family gatherings.”

“See?” Michael responds, satisfied. “If that makes me an asshole, then we’re both assholes, son.”

“Maybe we are,” George Michael says, sounding unsure. “But didn’t – didn’t he do that with women, though, too? Have sex with them at family gatherings, I mean?”

“Yeah, he did,” Michael answers. “He just wasn’t so _loud_ about it.”

“Well, that kind of makes sense, though, doesn’t it?” George Michael asks. “I mean, if he’s gay, you know… wouldn’t he probably be louder if he’s actually _enjoying_ it?”

“Well, when you put it that way…” Michael replies, trailing off. He can see that logic, as much as he despises it.

“Yeah,” George Michael says, hoping that will be the end of the conversation. He’s not sure how they ended up discussing his uncle’s sex life, and it’s certainly not a topic that he’s particularly fond of.

Michael is starting to open his mouth again now, so George Michael quickly changes the subject. Not to the thing he actually wants to talk about, which is what happened in the Winnebago this morning, but to the first thing he can think of, which is his _other_ uncle’s murder trial. “So, uh, Uncle Buster’s having a new trial?”

Michael sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, apparently he is.”

“That should be interesting.”

“Well, that’s one word for it. Personally, I doubt there’ll be much to it. I mean, he’s already confessed. The whole world knows he did it. If it were up to me, I’d just hire the Guilty Guys and be done with it. God knows we can afford them now. Knowing your grandmother, though…” Michael trails off again, because the rest doesn’t need to be said.

George Michael nods, then turns to stare out the window. Michael, meanwhile, chooses to focus on the road ahead of them. The air inside the smartcar is heavy with the words neither father nor son chooses to speak, the words about two dead men who are incomprehensibly still very much alive. Both father and son sit in silence for the remainder of the ride instead of talking things out, seated less than two feet apart and separated by miles of miscommunication, independently absorbed in very much the same conundrum.

Michael, for one, decides to use the silence to go over the past 24 hours inside his head. Sleep deprivation, however, is making that impossible, and it’s all a jumbled mess of murder trials, the surprise reunion with a man whose funeral he practically _just_ got back from, the shrillness of his mother’s voice, his old finally-realized dream of working at Sitwell(that he suspects will turn out to be more of a nightmare), the gay magician sex his brother seems so eager to partake in(_and did Gob say he and Tony were getting married_? _what the hell_?), and his nephew with the bad hairline who’s always yelling ‘Steve Holt!’.

Somewhere, Michael realizes, George Sr is out there laughing.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, fun story: when i first started writing this fic, i intended for this to be the third chapter. then i changed my mind, wrote a different third chapter, and posted an earlier draft of this as the original chapter four. then i reread it, decided it worked better without the original chapter three, and deleted that one while leaving the earlier draft of this up. of course, that one was written to come after the chapter that i deleted, so there were several places that no longer made sense. and since i'm an idiot, i decided the solution to that would be to hastily rewrite the original chapter three and then put it back up. naturally i still wasn't satisfied with that either, so i eventually ended up deleting both chapters so i could end this one in a different place.
> 
> flash forward to more recently, i realized there was literally nothing i could do to the original chapter three that would make me hate it less, so i scrapped it entirely and rewrote this one to make sense without it, thus reverting to my original plan for this fic. subsequently i realized the chapter was getting way too long and i needed to split it again, and guess where the best place to split it was? that's right, where i had split it to begin with. so moral of the story here, always go with your gut.
> 
> anyway, i know i keep saying i won't update this again until the whole thing is finished, and for the most part i think that's still true. i just wanted to go ahead and put this chapter back up because i do actually really like how the [redacted] scene turned out.

Soon, though, George Sr is the furthest thing from Michael’s mind, and for several months things almost seem normal. Well, not _normal_, because nothing that involves the Bluth family ever really is, but _predictable_. Almost _too_ predictable at times.

Still, it’s not until July that Michael realizes his life has fallen into a pattern. He gets up every day and goes to work at Sitwell – where the benefits of working for a legitimate company are very nearly offset by the hassle of business meetings that don’t begin until some poor bastard happens to say the word ‘wonder’ – then comes home to a house his brother sold to his son. A few times a week, the whole family(plus Tony Wonder – it seems that even leaving the family company isn’t enough to get Michael out of awkward family dinners with his boss) gets together for as long as they can stand each other, and each time Michael finds himself, once again, on the verge of threatening to take George Michael and leave, oftentimes announcing to his mother just how close he is to doing so. Each time, however, he realizes he’s got nowhere to go, although he tends to keep that part to himself.

Everything seems a little backwards – not because he’s working for a company that used to be the family company’s chief competitor, or because he lives in a house owned by his son instead of the other way around. It’s just that George Michael’s house is pretty much a mirror image of the model home, and everything is on the opposite side of where Michael expects it to be. He keeps stubbing his toes on things that shouldn’t be there, and each time it happens he gets the feeling that there’s something important he’s forgotten.

Maeby’s there about half the time, and Michael still has yet to catch her in the act of making a move on George Michael(although he _has_ caught them whispering secrets to each other more times than he can count, which has to count for something). He remains convinced there’s something unsavory going on between those two, and he dreads the day he’ll find out what it is.

His mother hasn’t come crawling to him for help with Buster’s new trial yet, either, but he suspects that that much is about to change. Today is July 2nd, and if Buster’s new trial starts on August 1st, that leaves them with just shy of a month remaining before the big court date. Which certainly seems like approximately the amount of time she’d choose to leave him with once he has to take over – enough that it’s technically doable, but not without considerable stress. He’s not looking forward to it in the slightest.

“Let’s go ahead and get this over with, Mom,” he says loudly, cutting through the relative peace and quiet of the room. “Why don’t you just come right out and say why you called this family meeting?”

The whole family’s been summoned to the beach cottage, where they’re currently lounging in the living room – Lucille by the bar, Buster’s iPad-broomstick-Roomba on her heels, and the remainder of the family(with the notable exception of the two magicians) spread out across the various furniture.

“Oh, Michael, _please_,” Lucille replies, rolling her eyes as she turns to face him, “as much as I’d love to, _I’m_ not the one who called it. That would be your brother.”

Michael looks at Buster, then back at his mother, his eyebrows raised. “Oh, so you’re gonna have him do your dirty work for you, huh? Keep your own hands clean?”

Buster frowns. “_Other_ brother, Michael.”

“_Gob_ called this meeting?” Michael asks in disbelief. _That’s_ an unexpected development. “He’s not even here!”

Lucille shrugs, then resumes fixing her drink, and Michael shifts his focus to the rest of the family. Tobias opens his mouth as if to speak, then somehow manages to fall off the couch, and Lindsay rolls her eyes dramatically.

“You sure about that?” Maeby counters, making purposeful eye contact with her uncle. “Let’s all be really quiet for a moment and see if we can hear any moaning.”

“Or maybe we should all keep talking,” George Michael suggests, looking vaguely uncomfortable. “Y-you know, just a thought.”

“DID SOMEBODY SAY WONDER?” Tobias shouts at the top of his lungs, looking around the room expectantly, and everyone glares at him. A moment later he continues, fortunately now at a normal volume. “Yeah, I _don’t_ think he’s here. He would _not_ have appreciated that, dare I say.”

“Tony Wonder would’ve beat your A for that,” Buster agrees, giggling at the thought.

Michael facepalms, then stands up. “Okay, well, quite frankly, then, I don’t see why the rest of us are still here. Guy calls a family meeting and then doesn’t even have the decency to show up for it? Come on, George Michael, let’s get out of here.”

“Dad, we just got here,” George Michael protests.

“And clearly getting here at all was a waste of our time. Come on, let’s go.” He continues motioning for his son to get up, frustrated that George Michael seems to be in no hurry to obey him.

“Oh, trust me, Michael,” Lindsay says, grinning, “he’ll be here.”

Michael sits back down, eyes trained on his sister/aunt. “What makes you so sure? And why do you keep smiling like that?”

“I have my sources,” she replies, lightly tapping her phone with her fingernails. “And I have a heart, unlike _some_ people.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?” Michael asks, and Lindsay rolls her eyes again.

Lucille, meanwhile, has taken Tobias’s spot on the couch, and she chimes in before her daughter/sister can answer. “Your brother’s found someone who’s willing to _literally_ kiss his ass, Michael, and you can’t even pretend to be happy for him? This is _Gob_ we’re talking about here. Surely you must understand how rare that is.”

Michael makes a face. “I think you mean _figuratively_, Mother. Understandable mistake. You’re at that age where your mind’s starting to go.”

“Oh, _no_, Michael,” Lucille replies, her eyes boring into his, “I meant what I said. Truly, the things I’ve overheard through these thin walls…” she cuts herself off with a sip of her freshly-made vodka martini, and Michael makes another face. “Your late father wasn’t the only one who used this place as a fuck pad.”

“Okay,” Michael says, both suspicious and disgusted, “why are you all talking like you know something I don’t?”

“Oh, just a hunch,” Lucille responds with a shrug. “Call it a mother’s instinct.”

“Because I _do_ know something you don’t, Michael,” Lindsay says at the same time, her smile now more of a smirk.

“A _mo_-” Michael starts, bewildered at Lucille’s insinuation that she possesses any motherly qualities at all. Shaking his head, he decides what Lindsay said is more deserving of a response. “And what might that be, Lindsay? Care to fill me in?”

Lindsay shakes her own head. “No, I’m good,” she replies, not even pretending to consider it first. Michael rolls his eyes.

“Well, that’s great,” he says sarcastically. “You’re good, I’m great.”

“Good for you, Michael,” Lindsay says insincerely, returning her focus to her phone.

“_Great_ for me, actually, Lindsay,” Michael retorts. “You’re the one who’s good. I’m _great_, remember?”

She rolls her eyes a third time. “God, Michael, you don’t have to make _everything_ a competition.”

“Hey, guys,” Steve Holt interjects from his spot on the barstool, suddenly reminding Michael of his presence. “Sorry to interrupt, but my dad actually _is_ here. Yeah, he’s out in the parking lot. He texted me a few minutes ago, said he’d be in here as soon as he finished, um, taking care of something.”

“’Taking care of something’?” Michael questions, frowning. He doesn’t like the sound of that. “What could he possibly be ‘taking care of’?”

“Well, he _did_ tell me, but I thought I should probably clean it up a little before I relayed the message,” Steve replies, looking vaguely uneasy. “You guys probably don’t need to know all the, um, details. _I_ didn’t, anyway. I’m not really sure why he told me.”

Michael grimaces, now regretting the question. “Okay, got it.”

“Thanks for that, Steve Holt,” George Michael adds, sporting a grimace of his own.

“_Steve Holt_!” Steve replies, pumping his fists.

Lindsay, meanwhile, stands up and heads for the front door, because she now knows for a fact that there’s something outside she never got the chance to see last year. Maeby follows her, and Tobias follows after them like an oblivious lost puppy. Michael, feeling left out, quickly joins the trio, and soon enough the entire family is out on the front porch, staring down at the parking lot in a mix of shock, awe, and… well, wonder(_how appropriate_, Michael thinks to himself) as they observe the spectacle below.

Lucille speaks up first, eyeing the parade float with disdain. “How on earth did they manage to get that _eyesore_ past the guard gate?”

Everyone else starts talking at the same time.

“Oh, that’s right, there was that parade today,” says George Michael.

“Wow, it looks even cooler in person!” Steve exclaims.

“I can’t see! What’s going on?” Buster complains.

“Isn’t this just the most romantic thing you’ve ever seen in your life?” Lindsay swoons.

“Well, it’s definitely the gayest,” Maeby replies with a shrug.

“How come no one told me we were doing the parade again?” asks Tobias. “My talents have been wasted! _Wasted_, I say!”

“Here you go, pal,” Michael says, lifting up Buster’s iPad-broomstick-Roomba so he can catch a glimpse of the float.

“_That’s_ what everybody’s so excited about?” Buster scoffs. “Big deal! I saw that last year.”

Indeed, the closet store float currently parked outside the beach cottage appears to be an exact replica of its ill-fated predecessor from the previous year’s parade, complete with the oversized playing cards, excessive amounts of glitter, and dual spinning closets. _The only thing missing is the cement_, Michael thinks to himself as he sets Buster back down on the ground. And the magicians, but he has a pretty decent idea of where they are and what they’re doing right now. As the family stands there watching, the door to one of the closets opens slightly. A hand quickly reaches out and shuts it again, confirming Michael’s suspicions.

“Okay,” he says, turning around in case the door happens to reopen, “let’s just go back inside and wait for them to come join us.”

Most of the family obliges, save for Tobias, who remains rooted to his spot.

“Tobias?” Michael asks. “You coming?”

“Huh? Oh, who – oh, you mean me? Well, yes, I suppose-” he looks around, realizes he and Michael are the only ones left on the porch, and quickly reenters the house. “Back inside already, are we? How about that? What a world we live in. What a world, indeed.”

Michael, deeming this to be unworthy of a response, returns to his seat in the living room, where he finds his mother on a tangent.

“What did I tell you?” Lucille asks, gesturing with her martini glass. “What have I _always_ said?”

“We _know_, Lucille,” Lindsay replies, rolling her eyes. “Dramatic and flamboyant.”

“Well, they are!” Lucille continues. “Every little thing is an _ordeal_ with that lot, Lindsay.” She pauses for a moment, eyeing Tobias. “Or haven’t you figured that out by now?”

“What are you implying?” Lindsay asks, her eyes narrowed and her phone gripped almost protectively.

“Oh, are we back to implying now?” Michael chimes in.

For a moment Lindsay looks confused, and then her grip on the phone relaxes slightly. “Oh, _right_, you mean Tobias.”

Lucille raises her eyebrows. “Forgetting that you’re married? That’s always a great sign.”

Lindsay scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lucille. We’re not _married_.”

Lucille and Michael frown at her, as does Steve Holt from the other side of the room. From the iPad, Buster looks mildly intrigued, and Tobias looks absolutely perplexed.

“We’re not?” he asks. “Well, that’s certainly news to me.”

Lindsay turns to look at him, realization dawning on her face. “Oh, right, _duh_. You meant me and _Tobias_. Yeah, no, we’re totally married.”

Michael stares at her, wondering who she had _thought_ Lucille meant. Specifics aside, though, she just blatantly admitted to cheating on her husband, and he spends a moment trying to decide whether or not he cares about that. Tobias himself, meanwhile, certainly doesn’t seem to.

“Strongest marriage in the family!” he shouts, clueless as ever, reaching for Lindsay’s hand. She doesn’t reach back, so he settles for grabbing her toe instead, at least until she yanks her foot out of his reach. Lucille and Michael exchange glances.

“Not for long,” Lucille mutters into her drink.

“Well, that’s depressing,” Michael says at the same time, realizing Tobias is technically right. “Wait, what’d you say, Mom?”

“I _said_ not for long,” Lucille repeats. “Seems your hearing’s starting to go before my mind.”

Michael, rolling his eyes, decides to pretend he hadn’t heard that. “Finally getting that divorce then, huh?” he asks Lindsay.

She glares at him. “What are you talking about, Michael? I’m not getting divorced. Tobias is _family_.”

“You heard the lady, Michael!” Tobias exclaims triumphantly, rising to his feet for emphasis. “I’m still very much a beloved, _highly_ valued member of both the Bluth family and society at large!”

Lindsay frowns. “Well, I never said all of _that_.”

“Irregardless, I’m _family_,” Tobias continues, blowing Lindsay a kiss that she deliberately avoids.

“You can’t divorce _family_, Michael,” Buster chimes in from his iPad.

“Okay, well, clearly I’ve misinterpreted something here,” Michael says, eyeing Lindsay.

“_Clearly_,” Buster repeats.

“So if you two aren’t getting divorced…” Michael begins, and suddenly something clicks into place in the back of his mind. Obviously Tobias and Lindsay’s marriage is only the strongest by default, and if they’re staying together then that would mean, in order for his mother’s comment to make sense, there’d have to be _another_ marriage in the family – and if _he’s_ certainly not seeing anyone, and he doubts Buster’s the type to find love via prison penpal, and Lucille is nothing but a motherboy magnet, then that only leaves…

“Where the _hell_ is George Michael?” he asks, suddenly frantic. He _knew_ there was something going on between those two!

Lindsay rolls her eyes, and her answer is far too casual for Michael’s liking. “He’s outside with Maeby. Calm down.”

“I’ve got to stop this,” Michael exclaims, jumping up from his seat and taking off towards the back door. “This is all my fault. _Don’t do it, son_!”

“And _you_ think the _gays_ are dramatic,” Tobias smugly quips to Lucille, perching himself on the arm of the couch before immediately toppling over and landing face-down on the floor. Buster giggles, and Lucille only rolls her eyes.

“Don’t do it, son!” Michael yells again as he rushes out onto the back porch. “Don’t-”

“Don’t do what, Dad?” George Michael asks, confused and also worried that his father may have overheard part of his and Maeby’s conversation, during which she’d again been trying to convince him that he should, in her words, ‘track down Pop-Pop and kill him for real’. “I – I wasn’t going to,” he adds for good measure.

“Well, your grandmother made it sound-” Michael pauses, actually observing the scene before him for the first time. George Michael and Maeby are about ten feet away from each other, the former standing and the latter seated in a chair, and both staring at him in bewilderment. It certainly doesn’t _look_ like a cousin-to-cousin marriage proposal. He tries to backtrack. “What’s, uh – what’s going on out here?”

“What do you _think_ is going on out here, Uncle Michael?” Maeby asks right back.

“Well, Maeby, if I knew, I wouldn’t be asking,” Michael replies unconvincingly. His niece and his son exchange glances.

“No, but Dad, you – what were you telling me not to do?” George Michael asks.

Michael searches for a suitable lie – but, finding nothing, is forced to go with the truth. Part of it, anyway. “Don’t get married, son,” he says, patting his son on the arm. “You’re too young for it.”

George Michael frowns, both caught off guard and a little offended, and he yanks his arm away from Michael. “Dad, _what_ – why would I – you were younger than me when _you_ got married.”

“Well, yeah, I was, but, uh, that – that was different,” Michael stammers. _Damn it_, he thinks to himself, _he’s got a point there_.

“How?” George Michael asks, hands on his hips.

“Because he knocked up your mom first,” Maeby points out, smirking.

“Because the woman _I_ married was not my cousin,” Michael corrects, glaring at his niece.

George Michael and Maeby exchange glances of horror, each remembering something they’d blocked from their memories. Maeby, brushing it off, bursts out laughing, while George Michael looks a little ill.

“Jesus _Christ_, Uncle Michael,” Maeby says. “_That’s_ where your mind goes?”

“_Why_ would you think that – Dad, _what_ – why would I – what – what would make you think that I would marry Maeby?” George Michael asks, looking like he wants to die. He can’t get over the irony of the situation – for once in his life, there’s genuinely nothing going on between him and his cousin. Of course _this_ would be the time Michael chose to be concerned about the oftentimes incestuous nature of their relationship. Dumbstruck, he goes on the defensive. “What – what the _hell_, Dad?”

Now Michael really feels like an idiot. “Well, it’s – look, it’s not me, okay? Your grandmother said – well, we don’t have time to go through the whole thing, but she implied someone in the family was getting married soon, and I just assumed…”

George Michael facepalms. “Dad, don’t you think – don’t you think she probably meant Gob?”

_Oh_. Somehow, against all odds, Michael had managed to forget about his older brother. “Well, yeah, I guess that might – I guess that would make some degree of – some level of sense,” he acknowledges. He’s remembering now what Gob had said to him that first night he came back, how he’d mentioned wanting to propose, and that combined with the fact that _Gob_ called this family meeting, and that… _thing_ parked out front… great, now there’s a whole _new_ set of problems that Michael has to deal with. He probably should’ve seen this coming.

“_Yeah_,” George Michael says, folding his arms across his chest.

“You – you really think he’s…?” Michael asks dumbly.

“I mean, I don’t know whose hand that was that we saw earlier, but it definitely had a ring on it,” George Michael replies, half defensive and half exasperated. He turns to his cousin for backup. “You – you saw that, right, Maeby?”

Maeby shrugs, then nods. She hadn’t been paying attention, but it seems likely enough. Either way, Michael seems to _hate_ the idea, and she finds that part hilarious.

“Well, that’s, uh… that sure is…” Michael trails off, never finishing his thought. Instead, he turns around and heads back inside, still trying to process the fact that Gob must’ve _really_ proposed(on _purpose_, no less). George Michael and Maeby follow him – their conversation is very much over now, anyway, and after their shared remembrance a moment ago, neither particularly wants to be alone with the other.

Just as the door shuts behind them, Steve Holt’s phone goes off. “I _wonder_ where my dad could be,” he says after checking it.

Lucille frowns. “Are you mad? You’re the one who told us he was out front.”

That’s when the front door bursts open, and in come Gob and Tony along with a glitter bomb – one of those doubly annoying ones with the colored smoke, Michael observes. Gob apparently has his boombox with him as well, because something is playing The Final Countdown.

“Did somebody say _wonder_?” Tony yells, shooting additional glitter out of his sleeve.

Buster, Tobias, and Steve immediately break into applause – and this time, so does Lindsay. She also jumps up and heads in the magicians’ direction, much to Michael’s surprise. He’d thought she, if no one else, was immune to their theatrics.

“Gob, let me see it,” she insists as Gob continues dancing around like an idiot. “You _have_ to let me see it!”

“Mine or his?” Gob asks, but he keeps talking before she can reply. “Trick question, ‘cause they’re _same_!”

He and Tony strike a matching pose, left hands on display, as Lindsay oohs and aahs over what Michael can only assume must be matching engagement rings. There’s so much glitz and glam involved, both in the magicians’ wardrobes and leftover from the glitter bomb, that he can barely even distinguish any additional sparkle from where he’s standing on the opposite side of the room. Steve has also made his way over to his father and his father’s… _fiance_, where he joins Lindsay in complimenting Gob and Tony’s new… _accessories_. As Michael stands there, in mild shock that this is really happening, the rest of the family continues to crowd around the happy couple, until eventually he and his mother are the only ones remaining.

“Gob, what have I told you about doing your idiotic little tricks inside my house?” Lucille calls out from the bar. “And for the love of god, turn that music off! It’s like you only know the one song!”

“Mom, it was _just_ a glitter bomb,” Gob retorts, rolling his eyes. “Come on! It’s a special occasion! Do you expect the guys in the $9000 suits – the guys who _just got engaged_, by the way-”

Lucille is not impressed. “That’s even worse! Do you not realize what a _pain_ those things are to clean up after? The maids charge me double, and even then I find glitter in between the floorboards!”

“We’ll take care of it, okay? _Chill_,” Tony says, and for some reason this seems to actually satisfy her. Either way, the music stops playing, and Lucille, drink in hand, relocates from the bar to the couch with no further comment. It’s then that something occurs to Michael.

“Wait, hang on,” he says, causing everyone to turn to stare at him. “Why do you _both_ have engagement rings? Which one of you proposed?”

“I did,” Gob and Tony say at the same time. “_Same_!”

This is followed by a high-five, and then by a kiss that goes on much longer than Michael would have liked for it to. He clears his throat just as they finally separate, his question still very much unanswered.

“How does that work?” he asks. “You _both_ proposed?”

“You should’ve been there, Mike,” says Gob, patting Michael on the back, and Michael tries and fails to catch a glimpse of the ring on his finger without being obvious about it. “But, since you weren’t, we got the whole thing on video.” He holds up a thumb drive and starts towards the TV. “Now, how the hell do I…?”

“I’ll help you, Dad,” Steve offers, joining his father beside the television.

A minute or two later(as it turns out, Steve Holt is much more adept when it comes to technology than Michael would have guessed), the family settles in, with varying degrees of enthusiasm, to watch the video both magicians have described as ‘the greatest proposal of all time’. The recording opens on a wide shot of the closet store float, sandwiched in between two other floats, before cutting in to several closer shots, each angle displaying the float’s intricate details in all of their glory. The Final Countdown is playing in the background, and Lucille ‘subtly’ rolls her eyes.

“So you hired a camera crew and everything, huh?” Michael observes from his spot on the couch.

“_Shh_!” Gob hisses from beside him. “Save your questions for the end! But, uh, _yeah_, of course we did.”

“And up next we have – hang on, do I need to get my eyes checked? Is that what I think it is?” John Beard’s voice narrates from the screen. As if on cue, both closet doors slowly swing open, revealing Gob on one side and Tony on the other, each masked by a haze of smoke. They begin dancing, in perfect sync with each other, as the smoke fades away, and the music increases in volume.

“You should absolutely get your eyes checked, John, but yes, that is exactly what you think it is,” Joni Beard’s voice replies. “Laguna Closet Conversions appears to have entered the _same_ float for the _second_ year in a row.”

“Well, Joni, it could be my eyesight, or it could be a hallucination. I’ve heard those tend to happen when you hit the nitrous too hard.”

“I know you’re getting up in years there, John, but you could at least make an _effort_ to stay on topic. Back to the parade – dedicated viewers may remember last year’s debacle, during which local magician Gob Bluth hired Laguna Closet Conversions to build this float for him after allegedly mistaking the local business for _gay conversion therapy_. The resulting performance – a joint act with famed ‘Gay Magician’ Tony Wonder – very quickly went off the rails.”

“And that was _before_ the cement,” John chimes in. “Joni here really knows how to pick ‘em.”

Joni, perhaps wisely, decides not to touch that comment. “Intended as, and I quote, ‘proof that anything can happen in the world of magic’, the trick was supposed to be a _lighthearted spin_ on conversion therapy, with one magician entering each closet as either ‘straight’ or ‘gay’ and emerging from the opposite closet having ‘converted’ to the opposite sexuality – a literal take on the old phrase ‘coming out of the closet’. Things took an unexpected turn, however, when several tons of quick-dry cement were poured into the closet occupied by Tony Wonder – meaning, for those in the audience who took his claim of ‘no trap door’ at face value, _certain sudden death_.”

“Indeed,” John interjects. “However, Joni, it’s worth noting, Mr. Wonder is a _magician_, a profession famous for-”

“Which I already have, John. Try to keep up. It was a stunt that left many _devastated_, none moreso than than the man he’d performed it with, who apparently had no knowledge of the twist beforehand. Anyone who watched last year’s edition of this parade will certainly remember the footage of Mr. Bluth, emerging from his closet and proudly proclaiming, ‘Who’s straight now?’ only to discover his fellow magician nowhere to be found, a block of _solid cement_ in his place. The look of absolute horror on his face – you can’t fake that sort of _raw emotion_, folks.”

“You just can’t fake it,” John agrees.

“And it was that reaction, combined with several comments Mr. Bluth had made to Mr. Wonder, that led many to speculate on the exact nature of the relationship between the two magicians. Was this closet store float a _confession of love_ gone wrong? Some said yes, while others maintained it was all for publicity. After all, Mr. Bluth, who was seemingly left as an out gay man following the mishap, made a subsequent appearance on a local Christian program, And As It Is Such So Also Is Such As It Is Unto You – am I saying that right? It’s quite a mouthful – where he announced his intention of pursuing conversion therapy for real. It’s unclear whether or not the magician ever followed through on that promise, however, and a second ‘sexuality switch illusion’ trick he performed months later – which, interestingly enough, also involved cement – hardly cleared up the confusion.”

“It was at this trick, though, Joni, where we saw Mr. Wonder make his reappearance, wasn’t it?” John interjects.

“That’s correct, John. It was at the Bluth family’s _wall unveiling_ where Tony Wonder revealed to the world that he had not, as a matter of fact, been crushed to death by cement on that fateful July day. The news was quickly overshadowed, however, as it came to light that a ‘mannequin’ used in the act was in reality _not_ a mannequin but the _corpse_ of former missing person Lucille Austero. Suspicion quickly fell on Byron ‘Buster’ Bluth, Gob Bluth’s younger brother, and he was promptly re-arrested for the crime he had only just been acquitted of, by way of mistrial, two weeks earlier. As for the two magicians, it was determined that neither had any knowledge of the crime, and for the past several months they’ve both stayed out of the spotlight – save for at the funeral of late Bluth patriarch George Bluth, Sr., where it was alleged by the third Bluth brother, a _highly intoxicated_ Michael Bluth, that Mr. Wonder had been, and I quote, ‘balls-deep inside my brother on the bathroom counter’.”

“Riveting stuff, Joni,” John remarks.

“That it is, John. That it is. It’ll be interesting to see what these two have planned for today. Both men have day jobs at competing real estate development companies, but sources say the two magicians – who seem to have developed, if not romantic, at least a _sexual_ relationship – have been spotted performing together at local venue The Gothic Castle as a joint act on a number of occasions, and – oh, have they finally stopped dancing?”

“It seems the music is no longer playing, and both magicians are now standing very still,” John observes. “In fact, Joni, it looks like they’ve got something they want to say.”

“Well, let’s hear it, John,” Joni says.

“Attention please,” Gob announces from the float. “Can I have your – thank you.” He gestures dramatically towards Tony. “Ladies and gentlemen, _Tony Wonder_!”

There’s applause from the audience(and from Gob and Tony in the living room), and from the other side of the float Tony mirrors the gesture back towards Gob. “Ladies and gentlemen, _Gob Bluth_!”

This time, noticeably fewer people applaud(including Gob and Tony in the living room again), and Tony frowns. “Hey, listen up, everybody! If you clapped for me you’d better clap for him too. I wouldn’t even be here today if not for this guy right here. You see this man? He’s the love of my life, and you _know_ I have good taste! You see this float we’re standing on? His design. This illusion we’re performing? His idea. The guy’s a genius, and I need you all to appreciate him. Let’s try that again. Ladies and gentlemen, _Gob Bluth_!”

He gestures to Gob a second time as he says it, and this time the crowd, for the most part, responds with the same enthusiasm they’d shown when Tony’s name was announced. Gob looks mildly embarrassed, and he’s blushing a little, but he’s also unable to hide the huge grin on his face as he leans down toward Tony.

“Tony, that wasn’t in the script,” he whispers, and unbeknownst to him his microphone broadcasts it to everyone. “You didn’t have to say that.”

“It’s all true, though, isn’t it?” Tony whispers back, his own microphone also broadcasting the words for all to hear. “It needed to be said.”

“I love you, Tony,” Gob whispers.

“I love you too, Gobie,” Tony whispers back, and he pulls Gob in close enough to give him a quick kiss on the lips. Several people in the audience aww at this, and in the living room of the beach cottage Michael rolls his eyes. “Now let’s give these people a _show_.”

“Well, in a move that should come as a surprise to absolutely no one, it seems the magicians have just confirmed that they _are_, in fact, involved romantically,” Joni observes.

“Indeed,” John agrees. “A devastating blow for the ‘magic _isn’t_ gay’ crowd.”

Gob, meanwhile, nods at Tony, then straightens himself back up to his full height and launches into his prepared speech. “Some of you may recall the events that occurred last year on a float very similar to this one – in fact, you might even say it was…”

“…_same_,” he and Tony finish simultaneously, locking eyes with each other. In the living room of the beach cottage, Michael is unable to resist rolling his own eyes a second time.

On the screen, Tony continues, gesticulating dramatically with each word. “It was a performance that had it all – heartbreak, intrigue, _mutual pining_. Betrayal, abandonment, _mafia contracts_. Magical conversion therapy-”

“-_real_ conversion therapy-” Gob adds, also gesticulating dramatically.

“-arbitrary labeling of sexuality-”

“-_disturbingly_ lifelike mannequins-”

“-believed life-or-death consequences-”

“-closet store confusion-”

“-plot twists to rival Shakespeare himself-”

“-a love story for the ages-”

“… and thousands of pounds of Newport Beach’s _finest_ quick-dry cement,” Tony finishes, just a _hint_ of sarcasm in his voice at the word ‘finest’.

“It was a performance that would send shockwaves through a community, tear families apart, open up wounds so deep the likes of which had never before been seen, break hearts all across the nation, and perhaps even redefine the meaning of life itself,” Gob boldly states. Behind him, the music starts up again, although this time it’s not The Final Countdown but Drive by The Cars.

“Now, I have to say, Joni, I do think they’re overselling it a bit,” John Beard’s voice observes.

“’Overselling’ might even be an understatement, John,” Joni’s voice replies. The magicians on the screen, meanwhile, pay the newscasters no mind.

“Ultimately, however,” Tony announces, “it was a performance that should never have occurred. A grand romantic gesture turned grand _un_-romantic disaster. Proof that _drama thugs_… should stick to theater.”

“Now, Joni, it sounds like he’s referring to something specific there, but I haven’t got the slightest clue what it might be,” John Beard remarks.

“Very confusing, John,” Joni agrees.

“A magician has many regrets,” Tony continues, “but this is one I was forced into… by the _gay mafia_!”

“Hey, I know them!” Tobias shouts from the living room floor.

“_Shh_!” Gob and Tony hiss simultaneously, and Michael glares at them – that was, more or less, directly into his ear. The magicians’ onscreen counterparts, meanwhile, have taken to gazing dramatically into the camera.

“Well, Joni, that just took a sharp left turn into unprecedented territory,” John Beard observes.

“Indeed it did, John. It does answer a few questions, but I’d argue it raises several more,” Joni agrees.

At this point, several paid protesters – one of whom, Michael notices, could easily be mistaken for a caricature of Argyle Austero – begin climbing onto the float. They separate Gob and Tony and drag them towards opposite ends of the platform, where the two magicians gaze longingly into each other’s eyes, each with one arm outstretched toward the other like some sort of bizarre modern-day renaissance painting. For a very brief moment, the image sends Michael flashing back to the days of the Bluth family’s participation in the Living Classics pageant. Instantly, however, the moment is gone, and the scene erupts into pre-choreographed chaos.

“‘You’re a fake gay’, they said,” Tony cries out. He stage-punches one of the protesters in the eye, and the guy goes down like a sack of bricks, a glittery explosion signifying his ‘defeat’.

“‘Fake your death’, they said,” Tony continues. He stage-elbows a second protester in the chest, resulting in a second glittery explosion. From the center of the float, ‘Argyle’ screeches.

“‘Use our cement’, they said,” Gob adds from the other side of the float. He pretends to knee a third protester in the balls, and the guy drops down, glitter erupting all around him.

“‘Go to Branson’, they said,” Gob continues as he stage-shoves a fourth protester away from him. This time, his opponent actually jumps down off the float onto the ground as though he’d fallen, leaving a trail of glitter in his wake. Michael’s almost impressed by the level of dedication required for such a feat, but he keeps that thought to himself. The song still playing in the background doesn’t _quite_ match up with all the action, which Michael considers pointing out, but at the same time he can’t tear his eyes away from the screen. He has to admit, this is weirdly entertaining.

Having now ‘defeated’ all their ‘antagonizers’, save for the one dressed as Argyle Austero, the magicians reunite in the center of the float, each delivering a ‘devastating blow’ to the side of their sole remaining obstacle’s head. ‘Argyle’ falls over, smoke and glitter seemingly pouring out of his ears, and unceremoniously rolls off the float. One by one, the three remaining protesters follow his lead.

“And we said… that’s _enough_,” Tony pants, pretending to be out of breath from the ‘fight’. He reaches over and grabs Gob’s left hand with his right, raising it in triumph.

“We’re here, we’re queer, and there’s nothing the gay mafia can do about it!” Gob yells. He throws another fistful of glitter for emphasis. “We’re just two guys coming out of closets! _Full_ homo, _no_ cement!”

“And that’s the way it should’ve happened last year!” Tony adds. He, too, tosses a fistful of glitter in the air. “Just two guys coming out of closets! _Full_ homo, _no_ cement! But time machines don’t exist…” he locks eyes with Gob, and the two magicians nod at each other.

“Except in the world of _magic_!” they finish simultaneously.

With that, The Final Countdown starts up again, and both magicians dance their way back to the closets they’d originally appeared from. A moment later, the doors pop back open, and the two magicians reemerge.

“He’s Gob, the Christian magician!” Tony yells, gesturing to Gob.

“And he’s Tony Wonder, the hot gay one!” Gob yells back. A large group of paid protesters – the same crew as the previous year’s parade – appears on cue, surrounding the float.

“Well, John, it appears the magicians have – in their own minds, at least – turned back the clock to this very day a year ago,” Joni Beard’s voice observes.

“Why stop there?” Lucille asks coldly from her position on the couch. “Why not save us all a lot of grief and turn it back to before you were born?”

Michael frowns at her. “_Okay_, Mom, that’s perhaps unnecessarily cruel.”

“Oh, he doesn’t care,” Lucille counters, thoroughly unbothered. “Look at him. I doubt he even heard me.”

Michael does look at Gob, only to find him engaged in a very heated makeout session with Tony Wonder. “Hey, psst, Gob. _Hello_,” he says, nudging his brother. He _really_ wishes they wouldn’t do that right beside him, or anywhere in his vicinity for that matter. “Thought you said this video was important. You’re not even gonna watch it?”

“Oh, this part’s nothing,” Gob says, waving his hand dismissively as he pulls away from Tony. “I mean, it’s – it’s pretty much just verbatim what happened last year. So why should I – why should the guy-”

He trails off, uncomfortable, because he doesn’t _quite_ possess the emotional bandwidth required to articulate his feelings on the matter. Last year’s parade had been extremely traumatic for him, whether or not he’s willing to admit to it, and he really doesn’t want to think about it any more than he absolutely has to. He’d much rather be kissing Tony, who’s _right here_ and _alive_ and _not_ buried in cement, and who’s wearing an engagement ring that matches his own(that they’d picked out completely independently of each other, because great minds think _same_ and they’re so, _so_ same).

“Nevermind,” Michael sighs, shaking his head. If the answer to that question involves another stuttering fit, he doesn’t particularly want to hear it.

“Oh, wait, here it comes,” Tony says excitedly, giving Gob’s hand a little squeeze.

“Everybody SHUT UP!” Gob yells, despite the fact that no one was talking. The outburst earns him several glares, plus another eyeroll from Lucille, but no one actually bothers to say anything, and everyone looks to the TV.

On the screen, he’s just finishing up his monologue about hitting the road together. “Hotels, and… share a room?”

“Uh, _yeah_…” Tony replies, in exactly the same tone of voice as he had the previous year. “There’s just one problem with your plan.”

Gob had been smiling as he made the suggestion, but in an instant his grin is gone and all the color drains from his face. His eyes go wide, and he looks like he’s just been punched in the gut. Michael’s willing to wager a guess that this, too, was not in the script.

“_Tony_?” Gob half-screams(and Michael is relieved that when he opened his mouth it wasn’t to vomit, because the guy looks seriously unwell). He bursts through the closet door, panic-stricken, only to find Tony standing calmly in the center of the platform, a smile on his face.

“Oh, well, hang on, Joni, what’s happening now?” John Beard asks.

“Well, John, I can’t say for sure, but it certainly appears that Mr. Bluth is just as clueless as the rest of us,” Joni replies.

“Tony?” Gob repeats, rushing towards his boyfriend. For one terrifying moment, he’d thought their illusion had worked a little _too_ well.

“Hey, it’s okay. It’s okay. I’m fine,” Tony says, accepting Gob’s hug and doing his best to calm him down. “It’s okay, Gobie. Everything’s fine. Don’t worry.”

“W-what are you doing out here? Y-you said there was a problem?” Gob stammers, clearly not _entirely_ reassured despite the tight embrace he’s sharing with the other man. “Th-this isn’t part of the-”

“I know, I know,” Tony replies, rubbing soothing circles onto Gob’s back. His voice, unlike Gob’s, remains perfectly steady, and his calm demeanor exudes the unmistakable confidence of a man with a plan.

“Is there cement? Did you see a cement truck?” Gob asks. His eyes are darting around wildly. “Tony, what’s wrong? Did something happen to the trap doors? I checked this time. I made sure they were-”

“No cement,” Tony replies, still massaging Gob’s back. “And the-” he drops his voice down to a whisper(a pointless gesture, as his microphone is still broadcasting his every word) “-_trap doors_-” he raises his voice to its normal volume “-are fine. It’s not that. Nothing’s wrong.”

“Th-then what-” Gob stutters, his heart still pounding despite the signs all pointing to everything being okay. Tony smiles, and, were Gob not currently panicking so intensely, he would’ve noticed a mischievous glint in Tony’s eyes.

“I need you to let go of me for a moment, Gobie,” Tony requests. “You’re squeezing me _really_ tight. I can’t breathe.”

“Oh, right, sorry,” Gob replies, and he reluctantly releases Tony from his grip. For a moment, they just stand there facing each other – Gob still looks unsure what’s happening, and Tony almost seems to be waiting for something. Then, without warning, the shorter man clutches his chest.

“Tony?” Gob asks, freezing up, and the terror is evident in his voice.

“_So_ tight,” Tony gasps, then stumbles a little. “Can’t…_breathe_…”

“T-_Tony_?” Gob almost shrieks, frozen in place.

Tony keels over dramatically, still clutching his chest and moaning in agony. Gob, meanwhile, appears unable to move at all, every muscle in his body locking up simultaneously as he watches his worst nightmare play out right in front of him. Tony drops down to his knees, his head bowed, both hands clawing at his chest, and his tortured moan suddenly dies out in his throat.

“Well, Joni, that can’t be good,” John Beard observes.

“You don’t say,” Joni remarks.

“T-Tony? _Tony_?” Gob stutters, barely more than a whisper. His whole world just came to a standstill, and his heart is thumping in his chest so rapidly he’s afraid it might explode. He’s vaguely aware of a tear rolling down his cheek – and now Tony’s reaching inside his shirt, prying something shiny out from ‘inside his chest’ the way he used to do with folded up pieces of bread – and suddenly Tony’s looking back up at him, still very much alive and grinning widely, and even though Gob _sees_ the ring in Tony’s hand, and that Tony’s up on _one_ knee now, it takes a moment for him to process it all.

“Hey, Gobie,” Tony says, and his eyes are sparkling just as much as the ring, maybe more. “Marry me?”

For a moment Gob can’t see anything, his vision completely obscured by tears – happy tears, not sad ones. Tony-Wonder-just-asked-you-to-marry-him tears, not Tony-just-got-crushed-by-cement tears or Tony-just-keeled-over-and-died tears. And then they’re flowing freely and he can see again(kind of, anyway), and he’s nodding as vigorously as he can, and apparently he must’ve clamped his hand to his mouth at some point, because Tony’s reaching for it, gently tugging it downward so he can slide the ring onto his finger.

“_Yes_, Tony,” he chokes out, too happy to care that he’s full-on sobbing at this point. “I’ll marry you. I’ll – I’ll marry you a thousand times. I’ll – I’ll – _I’ll_ – Tony, _come on_, you really think – y-you r-really th-think y-you e-even h-have to _ask_ if the g-guy – the g-guy in the – th-the _matching_-”

“Shh, shh,” Tony whispers. He pulls Gob into an embrace as the taller man continues sobbing hysterically. “Shh, Gobie. Shh. You’re okay. I love you.”

“I-I love you too, Tony,” Gob manages to choke out between sobs. “I love you _so much_.”

“Well, folks, I do believe that’s a first,” John Beard announces as the crowd erupts into cheers. “A gay magician marriage proposal at our very own 2nd of July parade? You can’t make this stuff up!”

“You just can’t make it up, John,” Joni agrees. “This is definitely one for the highlight reels. Look at their faces! The crowd is going absolutely wild, but it seems these two _very_ gay magicians only have eyes for each other.”

“You r-_really_ scared me, Tony,” Gob sobs, burying his face in Tony’s shoulder. He’s pretty sure the past 120 or so seconds have been the most intense emotional roller coaster of his life. “I really thought – I r-really thought y-you were – that I-”

“I know, baby,” Tony says gently, brushing Gob’s hair out of his face. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have done it like that. That was kind of cruel.”

“_No_,” Gob insists, suddenly straightening himself up, looking down, grabbing Tony by the shoulders, and making eye contact. “It was perfect. I wouldn’t change a thing. You – you _totally_ caught me off guard. I mean, I – I had _no idea_ you were gonna do that. I was all like – and then you were like – it was _perfect_. I wouldn’t – I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

He’s already managed to stop the tears, almost as quickly as they started. It’s always so much easier for him to do that when Tony’s right there beside him, and now he knows for certain that he’ll have Tony right beside him for the rest of his life. That’s the only thing that matters to him, now and forever.

“I’m glad you thought so, Gobie,” Tony says, and his voice catches in his throat in a way that makes Gob pause. Gob blinks a few times, and he notices something odd.

“Tony, are you – are you _crying_?” he asks, caught entirely off guard. He’s _never_ seen Tony cry before – which is a little embarrassing, he realizes, because he’s cried in front of Tony dozens of times.

“Oh, _fuck_,” Tony half-sobs. He’s not used to displaying his emotions so openly – or feeling them so strongly, for that matter. “Yeah, I-I think I am a little bit. You just make me so _h-happy_, Gobie, _fuck_, I c-can’t help it-”

Feeling another sob coming, he buries his head in Gob’s chest – half for comfort, and half because crying was _not_ part of the plan and his first instinct is to hide from it. It’s all hitting him now, that his proposal went off without a hitch and he’s really going to marry the man he’s deeply in love with. Even though he’d known Gob would say yes, and even though he’d hidden his anxiety very well, he’d been a bundle of nerves leading up to it. He also feels a little guilty for making Gob cry, albeit unintentionally, even though Gob cries at everything and he’d had a feeling it might happen. Several people in the crowd are _aww_-ing, but Tony and Gob are both too distracted to notice.

“L-look at us,” Gob exclaims, sobbing now again himself(seeing Tony get emotional is enough to set him off all over again), “crying like a c-couple of girls.”

“Or a c-couple of guys,” Tony replies, lifting his head enough to gaze up at Gob. The fact that they’re _both_ crying now makes it less embarrassing somehow. “A-a couple of guys who just got engaged, and who are gonna spend the r-rest of their lives together. There’s – there’s nothing w-wrong with two grown men c-crying in this situation.”

“S-same!” Gob agrees through his tears, oddly comforted by the fact that, for once, he’s _not_ the only one crying. “I – I mean, y-you’d have to be some kind of _monster_ not to. Some k-kind of – of _robot_ or s-something.”

“Same!” Tony responds, and then he buries his head in Gob’s chest again.

For a moment or two they just stand there like that, holding each other tightly as tears of joy flow down their faces. Even as the tears subside, they don’t let go, clinging onto each other’s bodies as though they’re the only two people in the universe. Tony maneuvers a never-ending handkerchief out of his sleeve, offering it to Gob, and the two magicians dry off each other’s faces before moving in for a kiss.

It’s during this kiss that Gob remembers something – that _he_ was supposed to be the one to propose, and that there’s a ring sitting in his pocket right now just waiting for its time to shine. _Surely it’s not too late_? Plus, considering that Tony just proposed to him, he knows for a _fact_ he’ll get a yes. The thought of Tony saying no had made him almost physically sick with anxiety, and now that he doesn’t have to worry about that anymore… Abruptly, he pulls away, and Tony pouts at him in confusion.

“I just remembered, my shoelace is untied,” Gob loudly announces to both Tony and the crowd, dropping down onto one knee.

“Now the _other_ one’s getting down on one knee?” John Beard asks. “Folks, could it be…?”

“Are they…” Joni starts, trailing off.

“But you’re not wearing any-” Tony protests, still confused, staring down at Gob’s shoes – which, just as he’d thought, _don’t_ have laces. And Gob’s hands are nowhere near them, either way, so what gives? He looks back up, and first he sees the ring – and then Gob’s face, smiling that crooked smile he loves so much. His jaw drops open as he connects the dots.

“Marry me?” Gob asks cheekily, batting his eyelashes. “I _was_ gonna save this for the _end_ of the parade, but I figured since-”

Tony nods, grinning. “Of course I will, Gobie.”

“Okay, good,” Gob replies, sliding the ring onto Tony’s finger, “because I already said yes, so if _you_ said no, I don’t know _what_ we’d-”

Tony realizes then that he has a very rare opportunity for a man who’s 5 foot 7: for once, _he_ gets to be the one who leans down to kiss _Gob_. Naturally, he takes it, cutting his fiance(_!!!_) off mid-ramble, and Gob melts into the kiss. As if on cue, The Final Countdown begins playing again, and the camera dramatically zooms out to reveal fireworks exploding.

“They are indeed!” John Beard exclaims. “You have to see it to believe it, folks! A _double_ gay magician marriage proposal! This is the stuff of legends!”

“And are those _fireworks_, John?” Joni asks, equally enthusiastic.

“Well, Joni, it’s hard to say for sure due to this excellent natural lighting, but I’d be willing to bet all the money you spent on those implants that they are indeed fireworks,” John replies.

“Fireworks in midday is a bit of a poor choice, although I’d certainly rank it higher on my list of good life decisions than gambling away money you no longer possess,” Joni counters smugly.

Gob and Tony, meanwhile, seem to have finally remembered that they’re in front of a crowd. As the camera zooms back in, Tony helps Gob back up onto his feet, each of them waving to the audience as they do so.

“We’re getting married!” Tony yells, tossing glitter from the float like candy.

“Just hands… _in marriage_!” Gob shouts to a crowd that doesn’t get the reference. As his excitement gets the better of him, he reaches down and sweeps Tony off his feet, effortlessly picking him up and cradling him in his arms. Surprisingly, however, Tony doesn’t protest, instead draping one arm over Gob’s shoulder, cupping his face with the other, and pulling him in for a kiss.

Back in the living room of the beach cottage, Gob hits the pause button on the remote, and Michael looks over at him to see even more tears of joy. “The rest of it is pretty much just us making out, and then there’s some dancing, and we also go in and out of the closets a few times,” Gob says, wiping his eyes.

“Except, we _did_ totally forget to announce the tour,” Tony adds, having just now realized that after watching the parade video. “Whoops. Sorry, Gobie. I know how much you were looking forward to that.”

“_Tour_?” Michael asks, but both magicians ignore him. He’s pretty sure he’s figured it out on his own, though – the float must’ve been constructed under the guise of announcing a double-magician traveling magic show, and his brother and Tony, who apparently share a brain cell, must’ve each been planning to use the float to propose to the other instead.

“Ah, well, I didn’t really care about that part too much,” Gob confesses. “What I was _really_ looking forward to was proposing to you. I was just pretending it was the tour so you wouldn’t get suspicious.”

“Same!” Tony excitedly replies, and with that Michael’s hypothesis is confirmed. “I was looking forward to proposing to you and pretending it was the tour so _you_ wouldn’t get suspicious!”

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Gob continues, gazing at Tony like a lovesick fool, “I _do_ still wanna go on tour together. But I wanna marry you more.”

“_I_ wanna marry _you_ more,” Tony counters, leaning in close enough that his nose touches Gob’s. “Plus, think about how much cooler it’ll be if we go on tour together…” he pauses for dramatic effect “…as _husbands_.”

“We’re gonna be _husbands_!” Gob shrieks giddily, squeezing Tony tightly. Both magicians are grinning like two idiots in love, which Michael supposes is probably to be expected.

“Congrats, Dad!” Steve Holt yells, reaching to high-five his father.

“Thanks, son!” Gob yells back, wholeheartedly accepting the high-five. Steve then high-fives Tony, which is followed by Tony high-fiving Gob – and Michael, knowing how when Tony and Gob high-five each other it often acts as a precursor to a makeout session, loudly clears his throat.

“So, really, Gob, _he_ was the one who proposed,” Michael points out.

“Uh, no, Mike, we _both_ proposed,” Gob retorts.

“Did you not watch the video, Michael?” Tony asks condescendingly.

“No, I watched it,” Michael replies, eyeing his boss/soon-to-be brother-in-law. He’s mildly surprised that _that’s_ how Tony remembers it happening. “I saw _you_ propose, I saw my brother cry hysterically as he said yes, and then I saw him propose to you after he’d already accepted. Is that not what happened?”

“There was an awful lot of crying in that video,” Lucille agrees. “Then again, I’d cry too if I had to marry a _magician_.”

“Really?” Michael asks, looking towards his mother. “Huh. Surprised you’d spare the moisture.” He turns back to the magicians. “That _is_ how it happened, though, right? Just to be clear?”

“I mean, yeah, pretty much,” Gob replies.

“Kind of takes the, uh, _magic_ out of it a little bit, though, don’t you think?” Michael continues, determined to make a point here – or at least drive enough of a wedge in between the two lovebirds that they’re not all over each other constantly. “Is this really how you imagined your big proposal?”

“Well, no,” Gob admits. “See, my plan was to propose at the end of the parade, after we announced our tour, sort of a grand finale type deal. Except, turns out, _his_ plan was to propose at the moment it all went to shit last year – which I was completely in the dark about, for obvious reasons. So yeah, I did have to kind of, um, _adjust_ a little bit, to fit the circumstances and whatnot, but I’m not complaining.”

“Same,” Tony chimes in. He drapes his arm around Gob’s shoulder and gives him a quick peck on the cheek. “And, uh, Michael, last time I checked, his and mine are the only opinions that matter here.”

“Yeah, Michael, what exactly are you trying to say?” Lindsay interjects, her eyes narrowed. The rest of the family is also staring at him, apparently equally invested in his answer.

“I’m just saying, Gob, doesn’t it kind of seem like he’s upstaging you all over again?” Michael asks, memories of the first few times he heard the name ‘Tony Wonder’ replaying themselves inside his head. “Isn’t that, oh, I don’t know, the whole reason why you used to hate him so much?”

Gob scoffs. “Get real, Mike. I never _hated_ him. Hate-boners aren’t a thing. It was a _regular_ boner the whole time! I was in love with the guy!” He pauses, holding up his engagement ring-clad finger. “And still am, obviously. We’re soulmates.”

“And we’re illusionists, not mind-readers,” Tony adds, glaring at Michael. “I didn’t know he was planning to propose to me.”

“I think you probably could’ve figured it out, but whatever,” Michael replies, but he decides not to push it any further – they’re probably one of those couples that gets horny from fighting, anyway, which is certainly not something he wants to encourage. He’s never actually seen them fight, but everything else seems to make them horny, so it’s not at all an unreasonable assumption.

Lindsay, meanwhile, gives Michael a dirty look. “Well, _I_ thought it was a really sweet proposal. Who knew a parade float could be so romantic? It was like something out of a gay fairy tale!”

“As a man of romance myself, I must agree with my wife,” Tobias announces, stretching out on the floor like a sunbathing cat. “I found it to be the perfect callback to your previous collaboration – and this time, cement-free.”

“Well, that might not be _entirely_ accurate anymore,” Gob replies, winking at Tony, who smirks.

Michael facepalms. “Gob, he said _cement_.”

“Oh, did he?” Gob asks. “Yeah, that’s true then.”

“Let’s just move on from that,” George Michael suggests, looking vaguely uncomfortable.

“Move on from what?” Tobias asks, confused, as he stands up.

“How Gob thought you said _semen_,” his daughter informs him, and Tobias makes a face.

“Can we just move on, please?” George Michael requests again, cringing harder this time.

“I have to say, Gob,” Michael says, hoping to change the subject to literally anything else, “I never thought I’d see you this excited about getting married.”

“_I_ never thought you’d find someone willing to marry you,” Lucille adds.

“Mom, I’ve already been married twice,” Gob protests. “Well, one and a half times. I did kind of get out of that second one before it was official.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Lucille rolls her eyes. “How could I ever forget about whatshername and the other one? You stayed with each of them for such a long time, after all. Truly such shining examples of marital bliss.”

“You’re certainly one to talk about marital bliss, Mom,” Michael cuts in, and his mother glares at him over the top of her glass.

“Whatever do you mean, Michael?” she asks coolly. “My husband’s dead, just like your wife.”

Gob pulls Tony in closer. “Well, this is different, anyway. This time it’s real.”

Lucille sets down her drink. “That was my point, you homosexual dimwit. Try to listen for once in your life.”

“I… _oh_,” Gob replies, mildly confused. Coming from Lucille Bluth, the words sound almost _supportive_ – certainly moreso than anything else she’s ever had to say to him in the forty-something years they’ve been mother and son.

Gob’s not the only one getting that impression. “Gee, Mom, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were actually in favor of this marriage,” Michael points out, doing his best to ignore the yet-again-lip-locking magicians seated beside him.

She glares at him. “And why wouldn’t I be, Michael? I think it’s an excellent opportunity. The head of the Bluth Company gets gay-engaged to the head of Sitwell? Following that – and I’m speaking from purely a business perspective here, of course – the only natural next step is a dual-company merger.”

“Ah, right. Of course.” Michael shakes his head. That makes a lot more sense than the other option, which was that she’d suddenly developed a positive opinion of Gob. “It’s all just a business transaction to you. I should’ve known. Nevermind the fact that there are actual _people_ involved here whose lives would be affected by that sort of merger.”

Lucille doesn’t acknowledge this, but Buster does, rolling his iPad-broomstick-Roomba right up to Michael’s face. “Oh, Michael. You’re just mad because you always come back!”

Michael looks down. “What’s that?”

“Do you want me to go down the list?” Buster asks. “Because I can do that. You left for Phoenix, what, like _eighteen_ times, and you came back. You went to Mexico, and you made _me_ go to _jail_, and you came back. You left the Bluth Company and started your own company, and then your company failed, so you came back. And now you’re at Sitwell, but if Sitwell merges with the Bluth Company, then-”

“Hey, guess what, buddy?” Michael interrupts, annoyed. “You deserved to go to jail. You killed a person. That’s a crime. And it’s the _Austero_-Bluth Company now, remember? I mean, you did kill the woman. The least you can do is show her a little respect.”

_This_ Lucille acknowledges, tipsy as she apparently is. “The dead don’t deserve our respect, Michael. If they were so worthy of it, they wouldn’t have died.”

Michael facepalms. “Mom, that’s-”

“Either way, Michael!” Buster interjects before Michael can finish his thought. “You _always_ come back!”

Lucille nods in agreement. “He has a point, Michael. He might not have a hand, but he’s got a point.”

“I do have a hand, _Mother_!” Buster argues, holding it up to the camera as evidence.

“Yes, but you’ve only got the one,” she counters, unphased. “Most of us have two, just in case you’ve forgotten.”

Buster spins around and angrily storms away – as best as one can, anyway, when restricted to an iPad duct-taped to a broomstick duct-taped to a Roomba.

“That’s right, make yourself useful!” Lucille calls out after him. “Clean up some of this glitter your brother spilled all over the house! God knows that’s all you’re good for these days!”

Lindsay rolls her eyes. “Oh my god. Why are we even talking about Buster’s hand and Michael’s many, many flaws? Gob’s getting _married_!”

Michael glares at her, but Steve and Maeby nod in agreement. So does Tobias, who, as usual, is making a huge show of agreeing with his wife. George Michael glances awkwardly around the room, and Lucille takes another sip of vodka.

“Yeah, shouldn’t that be kind of our priority right now?” Gob agrees, finally pulling away from Tony after what feels to Michael like an eternity.

“Right?” Tony adds. “I mean, not to sound biased, but it’s kind of a big deal.”

“So have you set a date yet?” asks Lindsay, who still seems way too invested in the whole ordeal for Michael’s liking.

“Isn’t it a little soon for-” George Michael starts. He’s not an expert on wedding planning by any means, but his uncle has only been engaged for an hour or two.

“May 4th,” Gob and Tony say simultaneously. “_Same_!”

“Or not,” George Michael mutters to himself.

“May 4th of…?” Michael asks.

“Next year, Mike,” Gob replies. “2017.”

“That’s ten months from now,” Michael points out half-sarcastically. He’s a little shocked – not because it’s not enough time to plan a wedding, but because it is. He’d half been expecting Gob to say the wedding would be in two weeks, i.e. an inevitable disaster given Gob’s penchant for going all-out. Ten months makes it sound so much more real. “You sure it gives you enough time to prepare?”

“We’re magicians, Michael,” Tony says, matching the condescending tone of Michael’s voice. “We’re used to tight spaces.”

“Tony here actually just got out of one, if you know what I mean,” Gob adds, grinning.

Michael decides to ignore Gob’s contribution to the discussion. “Well, good luck finding a church that’ll take you.”

Lucille nearly chokes on her martini trying to stifle a laugh, and Lindsay glares at him. “_Wow_, Michael. I thought you said you _weren’t_ homophobic,” Lindsay says.

“Yeah, Uncle Mike, not cool,” Steve adds, a rare frown on his face. He’s not alone there – Maeby and George Michael are also frowning, and so is Tobias. Suddenly Michael realizes how that sounded.

“Oh, come on, I didn’t mean because you’re gay. I meant because of the whole ‘Dad’s funeral’ debacle. You know, Holy Eternal Rapture’s got a lot of influence in Orange County. I think we’re all banned from most places in town now.”

Gob rolls his eyes. “Oh, o-okay, yeah, because the guy who’s Jewish is gonna get married in a _church_. Come on, Mike.”

“You’re Jewish now?” Michael asks. That’s new, but Gob’s grief over their supposed-to-be-dead father has been known to manifest itself in strange ways. “Is this because of Dad? Because I hate to be the one to break it to you, Gob, but his Jew phase ended the day he broke out of prison.”

“Is he serious?” Tony asks Gob, and for some reason he looks at least mildly offended. Michael raises his eyebrows, confused by this reaction.

“Not _me_, Michael, you idiot,” Gob says, rolling his eyes again. He gestures to Tony with his thumb. “Tony’s Jewish.”

“He is?” Michael asks. Gob nods, and Michael turns to Tony. “You are?” he asks, needing confirmation from the source.

“Uh, _yeah_,” Tony replies, as though such a thing should’ve been obvious.

“Well, I didn’t know,” Michael says. Embarrassed, he tries to make a joke. “But in my defense, ‘Wonder’ isn’t exactly the most Jewish-sounding surname, so…”

Tony rolls his eyes, and Gob scoffs, while Lucille seems to find it funny. Lindsay mutters something under her breath that sounds a lot like the word ‘racist’, and Michael’s debating whether or not to point out that, first of all, the term is ‘antisemite’ and, secondly, he most definitely isn’t one, when Gob speaks up again.

“Well why’d you think he was cut?” he asks Michael.

“_Cut_?” Michael repeats, hoping to god that doesn’t mean what he thinks it means.

Gob nods. “Yeah, you know, ‘cirsumcised’. That’s a Jewish thing.”

Michael facepalms. That’s exactly what he thought it meant. “Okay, Gob, first of all, the word is cir_cum_cised. Second, I was not aware that he _was_ circumcised. And I don’t know why on earth you would expect me to be aware of something like that, for god’s sake.”

“Well, you did walk in on us at Dad’s funeral,” Gob shoots back, agitated. “You certainly made a big enough deal out of that, guy. You brought up Tony’s balls in your eulogy. And yet you’re telling me you didn’t even look at his dick? _Come on_!”

Michael hates the turn this conversation has taken, but he’s not about to lose an argument. “If you’ll remember, Gob, it was inside your body. I couldn’t have seen it even if I wanted to.”

“I pulled out when I saw you, though,” Tony counters. He’s not nearly as fired up as Gob is, but he seems just as determined to prove Gob’s point, which isn’t doing Michael any favors.

“You had a condom on!” Michael retorts, again flinching at the recollection. Somehow, even months later, it’s still just as vivid in his mind now as it was the day it happened.

Gob isn’t backing down. “Condoms are see-through. That’s no excuse.”

Michael glares, then throws his hands in the air. Winning this one, he’s decided, just isn’t worth it. “Alright, Gob, you know what? Unlike some people, I don’t spend all day staring at penises. Maybe I’m just not an expert.”

“Is that a shot at me?” Tobias cuts in from the kitchen. “Because I’ll have you know-”

“More homophobia,” Tony remarks, ignoring Tobias, who (somewhat disturbingly)never finished his thought. “What a surprise.”

“No, not – not homophobia,” Michael says. “Just-”

He pauses, looking around the room. Everyone is staring at him in varying degrees of discomfort, and he can’t quite tell whose side they’re on. His mother, at least, seems to be amused by this discourse, although his son looks embarrassed to know him. In the interest of self-preservation, he decides to change the subject.

“My apologies,” he says, and Gob seems to accept this. “What am I saying, anyway?” Michael continues sarcastically. “You’re magicians. You should be getting married in the Gothic Castle.”

“Well, yeah, that’s the plan,” Tony replies, pecking Gob on the cheek.

Michael has to do a double take. “Wait, you’re serious? I was kidding.”

“_Dead_ serious,” Gob replies with a nod. Michael has to admit, he certainly _looks_ serious. “I mean, that _is_ where we met.”

“I didn’t know the Gothic Asshole did weddings!” Tobias interjects. He’s still in the kitchen, doing god knows what, and Michael decides to give him the benefit of the doubt and assume that’s why he misheard. “Lindsay, perhaps we should do a vow renewal?”

“I’d rather not,” Lindsay replies dryly.

“You hear that, Tobias?” Lucille calls out. “She says you’re insufferable!”

“Can we focus on me and Tony, please?” Gob cuts in. “I mean, it’s like – _god_. Let’s get back to what’s really important here.”

“I thought you were banned from the Gothic Castle,” Michael points out, recalling the incident the previous year when Gob was still on his whole ‘destroying Tony Wonder’ kick. “Wasn’t there a whole thing with the magicians’ alliance? Isn’t that why you needed a fake boyfriend to get in?”

The question, valid as it is, earns yet another eyeroll from Gob. “Man, you are _really_ out of the loop,” he says. “Didn’t you hear what Beard said on the video?”

Michael isn’t sure what Gob is referring to. “Well, I definitely heard her call your wall thing an ‘illusion trick’, and I know how you feel about that.”

“Not that part,” Gob replies, shaking his head. He gestures to Tony again, that ‘lovesick fool’ expression back on his face. “Tony got me back in. We’ve been doing shows there like every third weekend.”

“Oh,” Michael says. Now that he thinks about it, that does sound like something that’s come up in conversation before. In his defense, though, the topic of magic is one he tends to automatically tune out.

“We’ve already called in and reserved it for the whole day,” Tony adds, reaching for Gob’s hand. He, too, is wearing the expression of a lovesick fool.

“Even though we only need it for the ceremony,” Gob continues, locking his fingers with Tony’s. “We’re thinking we might do the reception on the beach. You know, before everybody trashes the bay during Cinco.”

“Why get married on Cinco in the first place?” Lindsay chimes in, clearly eager to reinsert herself into the conversation. “It seems a little… counterproductive.”

“It’s sort of a special occasion for the two of us,” Tony replies, gazing fondly up at Gob as he strokes the other magician’s fingers. “A lot of _magic_ happened that night, to put it one way.”

“What, like a show or something?” Lindsay asks, sounding genuinely unaware.

Michael sighs, wishing he had the privilege of being so blissfully ignorant. “Lindsay, it’s the first time they had sex.”

“_Oh_,” Lindsay replies, much less disgust in her voice than Michael had hoped for. “Right, yeah, I saw the beginning of the tape.”

“Okay, it’s – it’s a _little_ more complicated than that, Mike,” Gob insists. “There was a lot of other stuff going on back then too.”

“I’m sure there was,” Michael replies insincerely, having just about exhausted his capacity to care.

He sits there only half listening as the conversation continues, driven primarily by Lindsay, who seems to want to know _everything_ – what’s the deal with the matching rings(apparently they’d purchased them on separate occasions from the same jeweler, who _had_ to have known they were together, according to Gob, who then cites the ‘stereotype about jewelers and money’, which Tony quickly reminds him is _not_ about _jewelers_), how’d they know each other’s ring size(Tony apparently owns various other rings already, which comes as no surprise to Michael, although he could’ve gone without knowing his brother likes to have things done to him while blindfolded), are they going to take each other’s names(_“Why would we do that? We’re both guys. That’s a chick thing_,” according to Gob, who very obviously had never even considered it; and _“The name change process is such a hassle, anyway, with all their invasive questions. ‘Sir, you realize this is permanent, right? Do you really want this to be your legal name?’ It’s like ‘I’m a magician’ isn’t a good enough answer for these people_,” according to Tony).

“So you guys have put a lot of thought into this, huh?” asks Michael. The one perk of the engagement, he’s decided, is that the magicians brought champagne for the occasion, so at least he doesn’t have to deal with it entirely sober. By now the whole family(save for Steve, who isn’t even _trying_ to fit in – he apparently ‘doesn’t want to drink right now’ because he ‘has a job later’) is at least a glass or two in, and the booze seems to have had the unfortunate side effect of making Gob and Tony even cuddlier than usual.

“Of course we have, Mike,” Gob responds, not even bothering to lift his head from its resting place on Tony’s shoulder. “What’d you think we were doing before we came in here?”

Michael stares at him. “I thought you were having sex.”

Gob waves his hand dismissively. “Oh, well, we were doing that too.”

Michael stares at the ceiling. “My own fault for asking.”

“So, Gob-” Lindsay starts for the millionth time, and that’s when Michael’s phone goes off. Annoyed, she glares at him. “Okay, Michael, what the _hell_?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Michael says. He declines the call – he’s not expecting anyone, and it’s clearly not family or work, so whoever ‘unknown number’ is can leave a message if it’s so important. Being chastised for it, though, is rubbing him the wrong way. “You know, I don’t really think it’s fair to blame _me_, though. I wasn’t expecting a phone ca-”

His phone is ringing again before he can finish his sentence, again an unknown number. Michael swiftly hits the decline button, then clears his throat. “As I was saying, it’s not _my_ fault that whoever-”

For the third time, his phone is going off, and for the second time it interrupts him mid-sentence. “Okay, well, maybe I _should_ take this,” he finally acknowledges, standing up. “Could be important.”

“Take it _outside_, Michael,” Lucille demands.

“That was my plan, Mother,” Michael retorts, heading for the back porch. He shuts the door behind him, and finally accepts the call. “Hello?”

“About damn time, Mikey!” the voice on the other end reprimands him. “Way to leave your old man hanging!”

The realization hits Michael like a ton of bricks, and he spins around with such furor he nearly loses his footing, all that champagne he just drank suddenly feeling like a huge mistake. The source of the voice, of course, is nowhere to be seen. He sneaks a peek back inside, just to make sure no one’s watching him, before whispering a reply.

“_Dad_?”

“Well who the hell else?” George Sr. retorts.

“Why are you calling me?” Michael asks, too stunned to say anything else. He’d spent weeks dreading this phone call, back when he’d first returned to Newport Beach, but as the months had gone by with nothing but radio silence it’d gradually slipped from his mind. Of course this would be the time his father would choose to finally make good on his promise(_or threat_, Michael decides, _threat would be the better word_).

“Why do you _think_?” George asks right back. “Come on, Mike, have you been in your brother’s pills?”

“You know he doesn’t take those anymore,” Michael replies. He hasn’t heard Gob talk about forget-me-nows in ages, not since… _huh_. Not since he’s been with Tony.

“Gob’s not still taking stupid pills? News to me.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t hang up on you right now.”

“Michael, I’m your father!” George insists.

“Yeah, well, you’re also dead. At least according to the state of California.”

George scoffs. “That’s just a technicality, Michael. And what’s a teeny _tiny_ little technicality between a father and his favorite son?”

It takes everything Michael has not to raise his voice from a whisper. “A _technicality_ – no, _no_, you faked your death! _Twice_, Dad! Who the hell does that? And this time there’s insurance involved – you know, if you get caught – or should I say _when_ you get caught – you’re gonna wish you _were_ dead!”

“Calm down, Mikey,” George replies. “I’m not gonna get caught. This is foolproof.”

“Yeah, proof that you’re a fool,” Michael shoots back. “Seriously, Dad, why are you calling me?”

“You really don’t know?” George asks. He sounds offended. “You really can’t figure it out?”

“Please, enlighten me,” Michael responds half-sarcastically.

“You know what, I’ll call you back,” George says.

“No, don’t you dare-” Michael protests, but it’s too late. The line is already dead. Michael’s not sure if he meant to say ‘don’t you dare hang up’ or ‘don’t you dare call me back’, but he decides it doesn’t matter either way. That, and his best bet is to pretend this conversation never happened. Sighing, he turns around and re-enters the house.


End file.
